tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74052900778891616582017-09-29T02:20:04.265-07:00Writing Your MemoriesEveryone would love to find a journal or diary of their ancestors. Some of you have, but…..Where’s yours?
Many people neglect recording their own history and that of their immediate family. Many do not have the time to start or know where to begin.
We know history is written by the victor, but it is the history…the story…of the common person that is most important. There are many untold stories that need preservation. It is important that these memories continue to live.Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-86906410622409734232017-07-16T09:02:00.000-07:002017-07-16T09:02:37.593-07:00My Wednesday Family <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h1 style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">&nbsp;</span></h1><h1 style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">Valerie decided to write an introduction to her many stories for the memoir class, and the following is the result. Although it is very nice her to include me in her introduction with such kind words, I deny it all! LOL<o:p></o:p></span></h1><h1><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">&nbsp;</span></h1><h1 align="center" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">INTRODUCTION<o:p></o:p></span></h1><h1 align="center" style="text-align: center;">MEMOIR WRITING CLASS</h1><h1 align="center" style="text-align: center;">MY WEDNESDAY FAMILY<o:p></o:p></h1><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">PORTLAND, OREGON<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This memoir is dedicated to our beloved teacher Emily Aulicino and to all my memoir mates: past, present and future.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In July of 2012, I apprehensively walked into a room at the Woodstock Community Center for my first memoir writing class. I had no idea what to expect or what kind of people I would encounter. The only thing of which I was certain is that it was a class for seniors 55 plus-old people just like me. I have always liked to write, but that was not my primary motivation for seeking out this venue. I was just beginning the process of integrating back into a more active life style after a ten-month forced hiatus spent recovering from a severely fractured femur in my right arm.&nbsp; Due to my prolonged inactivity and isolation from the real word, I had about lost my mind. At this point, I was simply looking for something to do. The original plan was to take an eight-week session and then move on to greener pastures. That obviously did not happen. Five years later, I find myself sitting in the same seat in the same room, with some of the same people I met that very first day. I call this group my Wednesday Family, and what a blessing they have all been! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Throughout the years, I have had the honor of sharing my Wednesday afternoons with an extraordinary group of amazing people that not only have enriched my life, but also helped me evolve into a better version of myself. The compassion, empathy, and acceptance of this group have allowed me to safely navigate the murky waters of the past and re-emerge into the sunshine of the present day. Their unbiased viewpoints and loving support have given me the courage to develop a clearer more realistic positive perspective of past events. My memoir mates’ life experiences and wisdom have empowered me move forward, and I now think beyond the regrets and “what ifs” that plagued my life for so many years. I will always be grateful for their contributions big and small and for touching my life and heart. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Our teacher, mentor, and dear friend Emily is the glue that holds our group together. She is our foundation, our cheerleader, our parent when we get rowdy and need to be refocused on the task, our preposition police, and so much more. For years, she has unselfishly dedicated her time to introducing countless people to the art of memoir writing so that their memories can be preserved and passed on to future generations. What a priceless and precious gift! Emily’s insight, knowledge, life experience, her passion for the process, and guidance inspire us all as writers and people. She is the master gardener of memoir writing class. We could not do it without her. We love and appreciate you Emily and thank you for all you do and for caring enough to keep the group going! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One of the other great benefits of memoir class is the lunches. The morning class meets from 10-12 p.m. and the afternoon group from 1-3 p.m. From 12-1 p.m., both classes congregate at a local establishment to share an afternoon meal. It is great fun, and there are many lively and interesting conversations going on all at the same time, punctuated with constant bursts of laughter. The morning crew is just as diverse and remarkable as the afternoon gang, and it is a joy to be able to spend time with them. Because of these lunches, both groups have morphed into one big extended family. We have all become so much more than just a memoir writing class! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">People come to memoir writing class for many different reasons. Each person brings with them their own unique voice, perspective, and agenda. The presentations range from chronological histories to humorous anecdotes that have us laughing nonstop to tear jerking tragedies that break our hearts and humble us as human beings. This class is our safe haven where one can confess their deepest darkest secrets and face their demons surrounded by love and support. You will always be embraced, never judged, nor criticized. This group knows more about me than my own family does. I trust them unconditionally. I can be vulnerable with them, and that is rare for me. An indescribable bond forms between the participants that is irrefutable. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Many times, at the beginning of a new session, Emily asks us all to introduce ourselves and give a brief synopsis of our backgrounds. She also asks us to explain why we are taking the class and what we hope to accomplish. I cannot remember what I said that very first day five years ago, but I hope I did not embarrass myself by saying I was bored and looking for something to do! It may have started out that way, but it has become so much more. Five years later, I am finally able to answer that question. Yes, I like to write, and it gives me the creative outlet I desire. The process stimulates me intellectually, and at my age that is vital to my mental well-being, but those are not the main reasons. I am able to say beyond the shadow of a doubt that for me writing these memoirs is about uncovering and rediscovering my own personal truth. It’s about the process of becoming “unplugged” from certain past events. I am here to free myself so that I can live out my remaining years with a new lease and outlook on life. I am here to make peace and to forgive myself for my mistakes. I am here to re-create my past so that I will be remembered and not be forgotten. I am here to unveil the real me!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I recently read an article by Dr. Terrie W. called, “Where do you live? “Terrie is a career Naval emergency room doctor, an accomplished author, an ultra-marathoner, and my best friend from high school.&nbsp; She recently suffered a series of major health setbacks almost dying three times. This set her on an intense soul-searching mission as she pondered what was holding her back from accepting and embracing her new normal in life after being&nbsp; forced to give up so many of the things she loved to do. She wanted to give up and even contemplated suicide. She had never been a quitter but felt hopeless and defeated. As a child, she had been raised to believe that if things looked bleak then they were worse than you imagined and to expect a bad outcome.&nbsp; Terrie fell into this rabbit hole and could not find her way out. &nbsp;She wrote:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 49.5pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“There are three places we live but you can ping pong between them faster than a ping pong ball. There is the past, present and future. Most people live mostly in the past or future completely by passing the present. “<span style="color: red;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She goes on to explain that we let past negative experiences and lessons cloud our minds, our judgment, and our decision-making abilities. For many of us, our past is like quicksand dragging us under, repeatedly sabotaging our progress. As a result, for many, the present gets lost. Terrie calls it being “stuck.” For Terrie, her near-death experiences forced her to refocus on positive energy only and getting ‘’unstuck” from the past. She ended her article with a great quote from Lazarus Lake that states, “Each moment in life only happens once.” Terrie follows this with a weighty question, challenging her readers, “You don’t want to miss that moment, do you?’ <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After writing this article and identifying the albatross around her neck, she started making great progress. Reading her blog was my “aha moment”, and I finally understood the benefits of memoir writing for me personally and for my family pedigree, present and future. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Memoir writing class helps me come to terms with my own personal truth and enables me to relegate the negativity of past to the past where it belongs. I put it on paper, read it to the class, and it frees me to close the book on that chapter of my life. It is a release and allows me to move forward. I have learned to live in the “here and now” and not to be held hostage by my past mistakes and poor decisions. I forgive myself! My memoirs are my gift to future generations. If one person is impacted, then I will have made a difference. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Why do I write?&nbsp; I want future generations to see me for my humor, intelligence, creativeness, and zany multiple personalities. I want to share with them my remarkable journey working with incarcerated youth. I want to send the message that no one should ever judge a book by its cover. Open the book and read it. You might be surprised. It just might be the best book you ever read! I want people to know that I made many mistakes and some horrendous decisions along the way, but eventually I learned my lessons, turned things around, and am a better person because of it. Failure is a great teaching tool and part of life. Without failure, there can be no success. I own my mistakes and make no excuses. The most important message I want to impart is that life isn’t always fair, but that each moment is a precious gift. Find the humor in every situation and turn those lemons into lemonade!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My Wednesday family is a remarkable assemblage of diversity at its best. I am blessed to be part of this amazing group. I wish everyone could be lucky enough to have a Wednesday family like mine. &nbsp;&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Valerie S.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">July 11, 2017</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Thank you, Valerie. &nbsp;No doubt you have inspired others to write their stories!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Best wishes,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Emily</span></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-66495088570652402022017-05-26T19:52:00.000-07:002017-05-26T19:52:26.650-07:00MOTHER’S DAY 2017 - A DAUGHTER’S REMORSE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /><h1 style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></h1><h3 style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;PORTLAND, OREGON </h3><h2 style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></h2><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Wikipedia defines Mother’s Day as “a celebration honoring the mother of the family, as well as motherhood, maternal bonds and the influence of mothers’ in society.” It is a day for juvenile and adult children to show their moms their appreciation. This can take many forms: gifts, shared meals, cards, phone calls or, nowadays, the ever so popular text message. For most, it is a time filled with joy and happiness, but for many of us, it is bittersweet.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Saturday, May 13<sup>th</sup><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><sup><br /></sup></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">On Saturday morning, my Portland based daughter and family arrived on my doorstep bearing gifts and to wish me a Happy Mother’s Day. My son-in-law had a large flowering potted plant in tow, and it was exquisite. My granddaughters Sloane 5, and Sawyer 2, knew the way to grandma’s heart, and each had a container of cupcakes from the Fat Bakery. I had barely finished saying thank you to the girls when they bolted for my kitchen table each taking a seat. “Can we help you eat your cupcakes <b>NOW</b> grandma?” There was an urgent emphasis on the word now. &nbsp;“What a great idea,” I replied to the delight of two grinning children. We all agreed that they were delicious. The adults chatted for a bit while the now sugar-hyped girls rearranged grandma’s house. I felt honored, loved, and appreciated. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Sunday, May 14<sup>th</sup>-Mother’s Day<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Although this is typically a day of celebration, for those of us who have lost our moms, it is a time to remember and revisit our relationship. It is a day filled with memories and in some cases, harsh realities. It is a period of deep reflection often resulting in opening the floodgates and releasing tidal waves of guilt, regret, and raw emotion. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">I woke up Sunday morning with mom on my mind and immediately went into my office in search of my favorite picture of her. As I ate breakfast and sipped my tea, I stared mesmerized by her image as tears cascaded down my cheeks. My heart ached with longing and monumental regret. When I was younger, I didn’t comprehend the depth of her love or appreciate how blessed I was to have her as my mother. My journey through life and the wisdom and insight it has bestowed upon me has provided me with clarity and insight.&nbsp; I now know that my mom loved me unconditionally with every fiber of her being and every breath she took, even the last one. I asked myself if Mom could say the same thing about me as a daughter. I didn’t like the answer. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">My relationship with mom was complicated, or so I thought. I now realize that it was me that made it that way, not her. I loved her dearly, but I didn’t want to be like her or end up the way she did. She was dependent on dad financially and emotionally. Her life revolved around her husband and children. She never wanted or needed more. She seemed content in her little cocoon. My parents never traveled. As kids, we did take family summer vacations, but mainly to neighboring states and nothing too exciting or out of the ordinary. They had no sense of adventure. Mom never set foot on an airplane. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Dad died in 1985, and mom’s heart and spirit were forever broken. She became reclusive. She had no real friends. She sat in the house day after day, year after year only leaving to go to the grocery store or walk the dog. She existed. My brother and sister lived nearby and frequently visited her. They were able to coax her out of the house for holidays and family celebrations. She became deeply depressed. The house began to show signs of neglect and over time fell into a state of disrepair. She didn’t care. She had lost hope. The dog began to potty in the house. Most of the time, she didn’t even notice. All offers to help were vehemently rejected. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">In August of 1997, I flew from Wenatchee, Washington to Great Neck, New York for mom’s 80<sup>th</sup>birthday. I had not seen her in 12 years due to my financial situation resulting from my divorce. I was shaken at the site of my childhood home masked by the overgrown jungle of weeds and grass. I was overwhelmed by the stench as I stepped inside to what smelled like a public urinal. My gag reflex almost got the best of me, and in the middle of all this, stood mom. She was skin and bones; a mere shadow of her former self. She grabbed me and surprisingly hugged me with the strength of a world-class weight lifter as she cried with joy. The sparkle returned to mom’s eyes as her four children gathered in their childhood home to celebrate her birthday. As I boarded the plane to return home, mom, begged me to stay. I couldn’t. My job and my kids were back in Wenatchee. It broke my heart.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">A few short months later in April of 1998, I got a call that mom was in the hospital. She had fallen in the house and had spent two-three days on the floor before my sister had found her. Because of her physical condition and the unsanitary state of her surroundings, the state intervened and declared her a neglected senior thus making her a ward of the state. Our family was removed from the equation, losing all say in medical matters and her well-being. It was a devastating blow to all concerned. After she recovered enough, she was shipped to a state run nursing home. After one day there, she asked my sister who was visiting, if she would ever be able to return home. My sister replied no. My mom hugged my sister, kissed her and said goodbye. She closed her eyes and died; finally at peace for the first time since the day dad had left her. The last years of her life should have been happy ones. They were not. Her children had failed her. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">My biggest regret in life is my failure as her daughter. Why had I turned a blind eye to the situation? Why did I think that my dysfunctional life and struggles were so much more important than she was? I had a million excuses over the years: I lived on the opposite coast; my own life was a mess. For years after the divorce, I struggled as a single mom to make ends meet thus resulting in my 12-year hiatus from her life. I thought I was doing my part by faithfully calling her every Sunday and talking for hours. How could I have been so arrogant, stupid, and wrong; I now ask myself?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">At the time Dad died, I was living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and I did invite mom to live with me. The kids and I would have loved that. She wouldn’t even consider it, and I just figured maybe it was too soon. In 1986, we were transferred to Wenatchee, and I was a coast away from mom. On numerous occasions, I begged her to come spend time with me and the kids. My brother and sister offered to bring her. Again, she would not even consider it.&nbsp; After I got divorced in 1992, mom made me a very generous offer. She said that if the kids and I moved in with her we could live rent-free, and, in turn, she would deed the house over to me. The house was worth over a million dollars so it was enticing, but not practical. My kids were happy in Wenatchee, and my counselor had advised me against any more trauma in their lives after the divorce and being abandoned by their dad. My son was a junior in high school and a varsity athlete.&nbsp; Uprooting him would have been devastating. So, I stayed in Wenatchee for my kids’ sake and left her alone and miserable. How could I have been so callous?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">After my mom’s death my aunt, her older sister, told me that that several times mom had confided in her that she could count on her Valerie to rescue her from the filth and squalor that had taken her prisoner. She told my aunt that Valerie would never let her live in these conditions. It broke my heart because I did. I beat myself up on a daily basis for my failure, as a daughter. It is the albatross around my neck. It will follow me to my grave. I know the old cliché that says “I did the best I could at the time,” but the truth is I didn’t do the best I could! I could have, should have done better. I failed the one person in this world who loved me more than life itself – just as I love my kids and grand-kids. Mom, I am so very sorry. You were the best mom I could have ever asked for, and I know that now. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">My three-grownup children all have families of their own while juggling demanding careers. I understand this “been there, done that”. It is the way it is these days for most families. While this is their time to shine in life, it is also important to take a step back and realize how precious life is and how suddenly it can slip away. Don’t assume that the people in your life know how you feel about them. Honor and appreciate them every day even if only in thought or with a small gesture or kind word. Remember that people get old, but they still need to be loved and not forgotten. Moms are one of life’s greatest gifts, and in my opinion, they should be declared a national treasure. Nobody is ever going to love you like your mom! Don’t take your mom for granted the way I did. Being old isn’t easy, believe me I know and someday you will too! &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Valerie S.<o:p></o:p></div><br /><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">&nbsp;May 22, 2017<o:p></o:p></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-84675481483853089832017-04-25T13:18:00.000-07:002017-04-25T13:39:19.162-07:00The Vistitor From the Beyond<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Another&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">wonderful story from a member of my writing class. &nbsp;I realize not everyone is a believer, but there are so many of these stories that I'm not sure how they can be doubt. &nbsp;Even I have had some unexplained phenomena as well as my mother and my son. &nbsp;Not everything has a clear explanation, but I do know that we, as humans, do not have all the answers and keeping an open mind is always the best. &nbsp;Enjoy this wonderful piece.</span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; </span><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">HE VISITOR FROM THE BEYOND</span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;1985-1998</span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Preface: &nbsp;</b>I Valerie S., (surname withheld), being of sound mind and body and never haven partaken in the recreational use of any mind-altering drugs past or present, do hereby delclare that the events you are about to hear are real.</span><br /><b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania</b>&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">— One of the most defining and devastating moments of my life occurred on the morning of Feb. 18<sup>th</sup>, 1985. At 6:30 am the merciless ringing of the phone jolted me awake from my heavy-eyed dreamland. The unsteady, sobbing voice on the other end was my mom telling me that my father had passed away.&nbsp;<span class="apple-converted-space">&nbsp;</span>True to himself, my dad died on his own terms—at home, in his own bed, and next to his beloved, Alice, his wife of 48 years. He was 76 years old. That year a deadly pneumonia virus had brutally swept through the country killing hundreds in its wake among them my dad. That day the world as I knew it ceased to exist, and the once steadfast walls of my foundation crumbled beneath me. It would take me years to sort through the rubble and destruction and find the strength to move forward and make sense of my life again. I soon learned that I would not be alone as I navigated the murky waters on this tumultuous journey. Support and guidance would come in the form of a familiar and prudent visitor from the beyond.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Great Neck, New York </b></span><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">— In June of 1985, I returned to my childhood home for a visit. I barely recognized my mom. In the four months since Dad’s death she had lost weight and had become frail and lifeless—her energy and sprit depleted. She was an empty shell of her former self. The once animated, feisty, red-headed-blue eyed Irish woman I called mom was gone.<span class="apple-converted-space">&nbsp;</span>&nbsp;She reminded me of a small, scared lost child. It was heartbreaking. The second night of my visit as my three children peacefully slumbered in the next room, I crawled into the security of my childhood bed and quietly cried myself to sleep. At one point in the night, I gently stirred as I heard the familiar creaking of the bedroom door as it opened. I assumed it was just mom checking up on me as she did when I was a child so I rolled over to continue my fitful sleep.</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">Then I heard the squeaking of the bed springs and realized that someone was sitting on my bed. I presumed it was mom needing to talk so I rolled over to an upright position. It was not mom, but Dad. It was my Dad. I literally threw myself into his arms expecting air and a vanishing vision. Instead, his arms encircled me and held me tightly. It was real. Dad was actually there. He was solid and warm. I put my head on his chest and could hear his heart beating. He was dressed in his favorite outlandish paisley-print shirt—the one that mom despised. I checked his shoes, and as always, they were buffed and polished to a high sheen. I could smell the scent of lingering stale cigarette smoke on the fabric of his clothes. The aroma of recently consumed coffee drifted from his breath. He lovingly stroked my hair while he repeated his pet name for me, “My Wallerie (Valerie with a W), my Wallerie.”<br /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We talked for what seemed like hours. He said he had already looked in on my children, and they were sleeping peacefully. He related that mom was tossing and turning unsuccessfully trying to rest in their marital bed. He asked me to watch over her and assured me that he would be around whenever I needed him. I watched him leave the bedroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I awoke the next morning with a happy heart, but in a state of confusion. My Dad’s fragrance still permeated the room and was now on my nightclothes. Had I been dreaming? My bed covers were askew, and on the spot where Dad had rested, there was an imprint. It had been real after all. I kept this encounter to myself not wanting to upset anyone and realizing how crazy it would sound if repeated. Three months later, my husband’s work transferred us to Wenatchee, Washington. I was forced to move to the opposite side of the country from my mom just nine months after our loss of Dad.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Wenatchee, Washington — </span></b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Since relocating, things on the home front had gotten worse. My abusive husband’s drunken rages had increased in frequency and escalated. Many nights, unable to rest, I would wait until everyone was asleep and quietly slip from the house. I aimlessly roamed the streets enjoying the solitude of night and the obscurity provided by its cloak of darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One evening as I approached the elementary school, I caught sight of a shadowy- silhouette propped against the chain link fence of the schoolyard. It appeared to be a man smoking a cigarette. Unnerved by his presence, I crossed to the other side of the road. Suddenly, a glow radiated from his being, and I heard him say, “Wallerie, it’s Dad.” Stunned, I remained frozen in place unable to move until a mysterious magnetic force compelled me across the divide.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Crying, I found myself submerged in Dad’s warm comforting embrace and mesmerized by his soothing words of wisdom. We sat on the wet dew laden grass and chatted until the sun began to rise in the sky. My heart was full and happy as Dad sent me home in time to greet my awakening children.<span class="apple-converted-space">&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My husband was already in the kitchen and eyed me suspiciously, as I appeared. He interrogated me as to where I had been, why the seat of my pants was so wet, and why I reeked of cigarette smoke. I just smiled and went up to wake the kids for school.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Dad came to visit me regularly for many years. He always seemed to sense when I needed him, and he never failed me. Sometimes I would see him in a crowed mall, a store, a parking lot, or a park. Dad had the magical gift to make time stand still. Everything and everyone would become frozen in time and motionless around us. Dad would spend the lapse in time, dispensing his sage advice and encouraging me to be a warrior and not a victim. He wanted me to take a stand and believe in myself just as he always had. He urged me to be hopeful and not hopeless. Then suddenly time would resume, and the movement around me would coincide with dad’s covert departure. These are to this day some of my most treasured moments.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In 1998, my mother passed away, thirteen years after Dad’s death. She was 80 years old. She may not have died of a broken heart, but she definitely died with one. Finally, Alice was on her way to be reunited with the love of her life. Shortly after mom’s funeral, dad paid me a visit.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Over the years, thanks to his support, guidance, and encouragement, I had been able to get my children and myself out of our abusive situation. By this point in time, I had been divorced for seven years, had sole custody of the three kids, owned a small home, and was gainfully employed by the Wenatchee School District. My children were thriving and so was their mother. With the help of my dad, I had finally turned a corner.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">This particular evening, I felt compelled to return to the schoolyard where Dad and I had our first Wenatchee encounter. He was there waiting as I approached and after a warm embrace we exchanged pleasantries and caught up on the children’s activities. Dad said he wanted to show me a very special place, and he reached for my hand. I found myself standing in the midst of the most beautiful garden I had ever seen. It was breath-taking and hypnotic at the same time. The sweet floral fragrance was magically alluring and soothing. It was like a sea of beautiful colored flowers and lush green foliage interspersed with divine fountains of cascading waters. Carefree residents meandered through plush and vibrant landscape laughing, smiling and conversing. They donned flowing white robes. There were men, women, and children. The magnificent garden was punctuated with exquisite white marble statues. It was the most peaceful place I had ever been.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The sun shone brightly, but I was neither hot nor cold. As I took it all in, my Dad continued to lead me down a path lined with magnificent life-like figurines. Dad finally halted at a spot that gave us a full view of a stunning pool of light blue water. There was a radiant woman sitting on a bench singing a beautiful mesmerizing melody. It took me a second before I realized it was mom. I wanted to run to her, hold her in my arms. Dad held me back. “She can’t see you or hear you—no one here can.” He continued, “I wanted you to see our new home and how happy your mother is. This is how I want you to envision us every time you feel sad or miss us. This is where we will all eventually be reunited as the Southard clan once again. Yes, Wallerie, this is Heaven.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I found myself back in front of the school. For the first time since I lost my beloved father, I felt whole.&nbsp;<span class="apple-converted-space">&nbsp;</span>Dad never visited me again. Thinking of them both now evokes a feeling of contentment and puts a smile on my face. They are where they belong-together. Their love story continues.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After this, I finally mustered up the courage to share my encounters with my sister. As I told my tale, she listened intently never giving me a hint at what she might be thinking. When I finished, she let out a monumental sigh of relief and confided that dad had visited her too on multiple occasions. She too had been to heaven to see mom! Maybe we were not crazy after all, but if we are, then at least we can blame it on genetics! Until we meet again Mom and Dad! Love you!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Epilogue: &nbsp;</b>On Sept. 23, 2011, John Blake authored an editorial for CNN discussing the phenomena of paranormal encounters with people who had died. He gave what happened to my sister and me a name—crisis apparition. He explained, “A crisis apparition is the spirit of a recently deceased person who visits someone they had a close emotional connection with usually to say goodbye. Although such encounters are chilling, they are also comforting. These encounters suggest that the emotional bond often transcends death and is not erased.”&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It happened to me, and it is my reality!&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Valerie S.</span></b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">April 19, 2017</span></b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div></div></div><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative; text-align: left;"></h3></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-10206792619491521382017-01-31T10:23:00.000-08:002017-01-31T10:49:21.658-08:00RootsTech, Feb 8-11, 2017 Salt Lake City<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S3t9QGrMEOI/WJDTfSMUmyI/AAAAAAAAoCg/1_zXF3WyL6c9V8b2aanGCPh6OMMswUwNgCLcB/s1600/rtbadge_speaker-2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S3t9QGrMEOI/WJDTfSMUmyI/AAAAAAAAoCg/1_zXF3WyL6c9V8b2aanGCPh6OMMswUwNgCLcB/s1600/rtbadge_speaker-2017.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>RootsTech is just around the corner, and many of you may be going.<br /><br />I will be presenting on writing &nbsp;your childhood and family stories and on the basics of using DNA for genealogy.<br /><br />For those planning to come, here is my schedule. &nbsp;Stop by and say hello!<br /><br />Feb 9 Thursday - 12:00 - MyHeritage Lunch, Room 355B<br /><br />Feb 10 Friday - 1:00 to 1:30 p.m. - <b><i>The DNA Q&amp;A</i></b> at MyHeritage book, booth RT17<br /><br />Feb 10 Friday - 4:30 p.m. to 5:30 p.m. - <i><b>Writing Your Childhood Memories and Family Stories</b></i>, Room 155D<br /><br />Feb 10 Friday night - After party at the Marriott City Creek Grand Ballroom<br /><br />Feb 11 Saturday - 3:00-4:00 p.m. <i><b>Supercharge Your Research with DNA</b></i>, Room 150<br /><br /><br />I will have a few copies of my book with me, but must sell them outside of the conference. &nbsp;Please designate which book is of interest: <br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<i><b>"Memoing" Your Memories: &nbsp;A Simple Technique for Writing Your Family Stories</b></i><br /><i><b>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Genetic Genealogy: The Basics and Beyond</b></i><br /><br />You can email me to bring one for you, also. &nbsp;This way, I am selling it here and just delivering it. Email: &nbsp;aulicino (at sign) hevanet (dot) com<br /><br />AND...most importantly, you can download the schedule and all the handouts for free by adding the <a href="https://www.rootstech.org/rootstech-2017" target="_blank">RootsTech 2017</a> app to your smart phone. &nbsp;(Just scroll to the bottom for the app or find it in the App Store on your phone.<br /><br />Enjoy,<br />Emily<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-26003930719953352732017-01-19T00:16:00.001-08:002017-01-19T00:19:18.392-08:00Smart Phones<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Isn't it just like our children to push us into the 21st Century. &nbsp;Our writing group found this story hilarious, and no doubt Dede's inflections kept us roaring. &nbsp;Thank you for sharing Dede! &nbsp;Enjoy, everyone!<br /><br /><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Smart Phones<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Christmas day brought us kicking and screaming into the modern world of social media. Our daughter Joni gave each of us a smart phone. We have been resisting getting one while declaring our preference for our old tried and true flip phones. To tell the truth we are technically challenged. The new ones came with cases, charging wires, batteries, and a tiny little instruction book. They could do anything a computer could and also had GPS capability. We wouldn't have even considered new phones but Jerry's case had worn out and was no longer made while mine had recently taken a trip to the county jail with one of my grandsons and try as I might I couldn't get it released. But that's another story.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">I hadn't been too happy with the new one I got from Jitterbug, it wasn't living up to its advertisements. They say their phones are simple enough for even an old person and big buttons. I wasn't having much luck with mine. So, I had been talking about changing phones. After oohing and awing and thanking Joni we looked at each other with misgivings. Joni reassured us that she would teach us to use them we began the adventure of punching buttons and cursing. After activating them she explained how to use them. It seemed crystal clear. Just swipe the phone and see all the pictures of different functions, then just press what you want the phone to do. OK we tried it out and everything worked just fine. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">The next day while sitting in our matching old people recliners, clutching our shinning new phones we tried to make some calls. Oh boy, what fun. I swiped and swiped and Jerry swiped up, down, and with vigor. Nothing happened, <u>nothing</u>. luckily Jerry had his flip phone still working so we called our ever-patient daughter for help. It turned out we had missed a step in our eagerness to learn. You tap the phone twice then swipe it she reminded us. Oh, and don't forget to set up your contact list was her cherry sign off. So, we got the phones on and spent the rest of the time setting up our contacts. I entered home phones, mobile phones, addresses and even e-mail addresses. Needless to say, after doing that we agreed to wait another day before doing anything else.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Another day came and with it much frustration. At least we were both doing the same thing and could help each other. "How do you do this, and what does this thing mean?" echoed through our living room. Plus a few, "blast it I will have to start at the beginning again," and "I hate this phone". Trying to send messages with our new numbers went smoothly but trying to retrieve their messages was, pound the phone frustrating. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Next, we tried the camera out. Jerrys took a nice picture and he snapped happily away taking pictures of the TV, fireplace, his feet and so on. Mine was stuck on taking picture after picture, close up of a horrible looking old lady whose face got angrier and angrier as I kept trying different things to change the camera away from selfie mode. I was in despair seeing myself so close up and looking down which ages you ten years. I did finally find the delete button and got rid of fifteen pictures. Time out. I said, I'm not touching that thing again today. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Another call was made to Joni and she cheerily agreed to come over after work and help us out, by then we had tried some other things and failed but we were getting used to some of the functions. Have you looked at the instruction book she asked? The book is a little 3"x4" thing with, (get your reading glasses out) tiny print. A minimum amount of instructions is covered. Things went well after she spent some time with us. We were confident and bragged to each other how we had learned so quickly. I guess all that yelling, pounding, and cussing was soon forgotten. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Alas someone told Jerry that he could press a function and just speak into the phone and it would do anything he wanted. Good he said; I'm tired of texting. He decided to try it out by calling me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">"Call Dede" he said. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">"I don't understand you", a nice lady replied. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Again he said "Call Dede", same result. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Time after time he repeated himself, with the lady saying over and over "I can't understand you. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">He started saying rude things to her and cursing her. From the kitchen where I had retreated I suggested he just hang up and forget it. Oh no, he was determined, "Call Dede", "Call Dede" getting louder and angrier, followed me downstairs to my haven in the basement. I don't know what finally happened, and I didn't ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Every day brings a new challenge but we are more comfortable with our phones. The other day Joni brought me a Bluetooth for my car so I don’t have to pull over to answer a call, sounds great, you just push a button!&nbsp; I don't know----<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Dede K.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Jan 2017<o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-83656936052519058262016-12-04T19:42:00.000-08:002016-12-04T19:42:11.202-08:00THE 1979 CHRISTMAS NIGHTMARE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Another true story by our writing class' best humorist! And you thought the holidays were stressful! Thank you for sharing Valerie!<br /><br /><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><b><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">THE 1979 CHRISTMAS NIGHTMARE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The story you are about to hear is true! The names have <b>not</b>been changed to protect the innocent. The actual events, which are about to unfold, all transpired in the god forsaken town baptized Palestine, Texas. This abyss is located 120 miles southeast of Dallas and 150 miles northwest of Houston. One might say that it is the Texas rendering of the Bermuda Triangle. What could possibly bring a person to such a place you ask? I blame my wedding vows for this predicament:” for better or worse, in sickness and health, till death do us part.” Apparently, this encompasses your spouse’s transfers for his company to unimaginable black holes of civilization. Let the nightmare begin!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The joy of the holiday spirit had permeated the house throughout and it had been transformed into a magical Christmas Disney wonderland. That year the entire Mickey and Minnie Mouse posse of characters enthralled my two little elves ages 5 and 20 months. The tree was bedecked with miniature plush replicas of: Mickey, Minnie, Donald, Daisy, Goofy, Pluto, Huey, Louie, Dewy, and of course the two little culprits Chip and Dale. Underneath the tree, the Disneyland Express could be seen and heard chugging its way around the perimeter. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The children cuddled against me as we sat on the couch in front of the crackling roaring fire for our traditional Christmas Eve reading of Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer and ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. The little ones then hung their stockings with care in hopes that Santa would soon be there. The customary cookies and milk were lovingly placed on the hearth and the little angels were now nestled down in their beds while visions of sugarplums danced in their heads. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">There were still Santa duties to be done. The presents were strategically placed under the tree and the stockings were filled to the brim as the children would soon see. Mama in her kerchief attempted to retire for a long winter’s nap, when all of a sudden there arose such a clatter, my scared son flew into my bed to ask what was the matter. I told him it was Santa out by the tree and that he needed to be quiet so he crawled into bed with me. When the child was finally asleep, I slipped out of the room to investigate the source of the commotion and what to my wondering eyes did I see, but my drunken husband passed out on top of our new fallen Christmas tree! Obviously, he had overindulged in Christmas spirits at the office party. After a quick recitation of the Lord’s Prayer, I made a grisly discovery. There were dismembered Disney character body parts strewn everywhere – arms, legs, heads, torsos, and tails. The scene resembled a horror movie. Perhaps my inebriated husband had suffered an insatiable attack of the munchies. Then there he was standing in the corner with part of Pluto hanging from his mouth. The mass murderer had been caught in the act. The dog did it! Explaining this catastrophe to the kids was my biggest concern at that moment in time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Securing a body bag, the epic bulk extrication began. With all evidence removed from the scene of the crime, the next phase was mass cremation. The lovely town of Palestine did not have garbage service, so at 2:00 a.m. I was in the backyard at the burn barrel committing what surely must qualify as some sort of sacrilegious act. Somehow, I had the strange feeling that I had just been inducted into the Manson Family. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Returning to the living room to recreate some semblance of Christmas, the husband was removed from the tree and placed not so gently in bed. With the tree returned to its original vertical stance, the presents were rearranged and wrappings and dents repaired. Suddenly the unquestionable sound of a retching dog resounded in my ears. Now what? Undigested pieces of Santa cookies were spewing from his mouth along with some Pluto’s legs and Mickey’s head. Is this Christmas ever going to end? Another round of cleanup had to be launched.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">At 5:30 Christmas morning, mama had not yet been to bed. The stirrings of excited children were heard throughout the house. My son bounded into the living room and stared in utter disbelief at our now barren tree. “Where are all my Disney friends?” he demanded. This was going to have to be the performance of a lifetime! Then baby sister added to the festivities by uncontrollably crying over her defunct tree. With both tykes nuzzled in my lap, I told them about other children in the world that didn’t have any ornaments for their tree and how sad that made them. Santa wanted all children to be happy. The story continued with all little ears hanging on every word. I continued. “Santa woke me up last night and told me how proud he was of both of you and how special you were. He asked me if he could take the ornaments from our tree to hang on the trees of children who didn’t have any. They would wake up Christmas morning and be so surprised. It would be a present from the two of you delivered by Santa.” My beaming son gave me his high five of approval and the children simultaneously sprang from my lap rambunctiously ripping open their presents. That started the family tradition of donating ornaments and toys to less fortunate children. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">At 6:30 a.m. the 24-pound turkey was placed in the oven. We were sharing our holiday dinner preparations with friends and the turkey and pumpkin pies fell into my domain of responsibility. The children remained in the living room gleefully entertained by their new toys. Suddenly my son started to scream. I rushed into the living room to see what was the matter. In the middle of all the presents stood the dog, bent over emitting unpleasant substances from both ends. The kids were crying so I explained that the dog must have eaten something that upset his stomach. If only they knew! This never-ending Christmas nightmare was getting old fast!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The husband finally showed his mug around 11:00 a.m. He was a sight to behold with tree burn all over his face. He complained about having a headache. There may have been some sarcastic retort on my part about wishing reindeer had pranced on his head. Due to my age and failing memory at this writing, I am unclear on that precise point. Pies were completed and placed on the table waiting for the turkey to be done. At 12:30, it was time to remove the bird. Upon opening the oven door, I was surprised to find an unheated oven and a stone cold turkey. The oven element had failed. Dealing with a bad cold, my sense of smell was nonexistent that day. Standing there holding a foil pan housing a 24-pound turkey an unforeseen development took place. The bottom of the pan gave way and Tom turkey fell to the floor. Stunned, I found myself looking through now bottomless pan at the spectacle of my dog greedily licking his new found best friend. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The dog was immediately banished to the garage for his own safety, and the chaos continued. Realizing the uncooked pies were now MIA (missing in action) from the table, a full investigation ensued. At that moment, there was the sound of uncontrollable giggling wafting from the dining room. There they were my two little angels from heaven finger painting on the pristine white walls with uncooked pumpkin puree. Is Christmas over yet? HELP!!!!!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">What else could possibly happen? As though on cue my husband entered and with great concern for only himself asked, “When is dinner? I’m hungry.” The till death do us part segment of my wedding vows rushed through my head as I started to step toward him. Concerned for his safety, I joined the dog in the garage. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Finally, I thought there might be an infinitesimal shred of hope that this miserable day might end. Guess again! &nbsp;My son’s bellows quickly shattered that dream. “Mom the toilet won’t flush, and it’s throwing up poop all over the floor.” The concept of sewers was foreign to the inhabitants of Palestine. This would not be a simple plunger fix. This was a dirty job, but it had to be done. Armed with a shovel and a special unclogging tool, I made my way outside to the sceptic field of dreams. I was fashionably decked out in all things rubber: gloves, boots, poncho, and mask. Thus began the archaic dig to uncover buried treasure. After two hours, the dastardly deed had been triumphantly accomplished. Then the most unbelievable Christmas magic unfolded right before my eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I was covered in poop from my head to my toe<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I found myself wishing for some new fallen snow<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It had been one hell of a day, I want you to know<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When up in the sky there appeared such a sight <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It was a shooting star with a very bright light<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">&nbsp;I made my wish and decided to call it a night<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">As I disappeared into the house you could hear me exclaim<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Merry Christmas to all and by this time next year, I hope to be SANE!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">--Valerie S.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-52353716516182360802016-12-01T17:11:00.001-08:002016-12-01T17:11:26.704-08:00THE JOYS OF GETTING OLD <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: windowtext; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 20pt;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; </span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 20pt;">&nbsp;</span>Another wonderful slice of life from a member of my writing class. &nbsp;Many of us can relate to this one, and if not, put it in your pocket as someday it will all ring true to you! &nbsp;Enjoy!</span></span></div><h1><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;">&nbsp; &nbsp;THE JOYS OF GETTING OLD</span></h1><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Last week my son-in-law was lamenting the decline of his aging Honda Pilot. Its speedometer had logged over 100,000 miles. The tires needed to be replaced for the third time. The air conditioner was sporadically blowing a fuse. The transmission was in need of a $2,500 plus service overhaul. Over the years, it had been a dependable and trustworthy family member. It had reliably transported the clan on their copious outings and adventures. It had safely delivered both their daughters home from the hospital. This automobile was an essential member of the household. Now the car was getting up there in years and beginning to exhibit signs of wear and tear requiring more service visits and more money. My son-in-law’s conclusion, “We need a new car!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I could totally identify with this vehicle and its physical and cosmetic decline. Hell, I am this vehicle! Unfortunately, trading myself in for a new and improved version is not an option open to me. &nbsp;Since the list for the joys of getting old can be correlated to the movie titled “The NeverEnding Story,” I will stick to the highlights as I see them. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I fondly remember the good old days when I could hold my liquor. College consisted of boundless keg parties and for those of us with palates that were more sophisticated, Ripple and Mad Dog were our poisons of choice. Recently, I was shopping in Safeway and stopped to taste Champagne samples offered by a vendor. There were three varieties available with one being a $100 Parisian brand and the other two, progressively cheaper. I started with $100 kind. I was given a sample in a diminutive plastic cup and smugly chugged the few drops. Instantaneously it hit me like a ton of bricks, and I was well on my way to being inebriated. I declined the offer of more tasters and spent the next 30 minutes in the store trying to clear my foggy brain so I could drive home.” How pathetic,” I thought to myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Speaking of not being able to hold my alcohol anymore, heck I can’t hold my water either! My most pressing thoughts anytime I leave home are bathroom locations. Let us not forget the recurrent nightly bathroom excursions! Too bad you can’t earn frequent flyer miles for this malady and at least be looking for bathrooms in tropical exotic locals!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Another drawback of aging is shrinkage! It reminds me of back in the 80’s when my children placed a large colored flexible sheet replica of an object or character in a heated oven and it would reduce to a small hard form. They were aptly baptized Shrinky Dinks. The same phenomenon has happened to me sans the heat as a catalyst. My three-plus inch loss in stature has earned me the nickname “Shorty” from my, now taller than me, grandchildren. Reaching higher than the second shelf in my kitchen cabinets has now become a futile mission without the aid of a step stool. My once powerful, well-toned body has lost most of its muscle mass leaving me to live in a squishy sack of osteoporosis-ravaged bones. My five-year-old granddaughter finds it very entertaining to make my spongy skin wiggle and jiggle like jello. Are we having fun yet, Shorty?&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I remember as a kid that one of my favorite cereals was Rice Krispies: Fill the bowl, pour the milk, and listen to the magic cereal snap, crackle and pop! Now days, to get the same sound effects all I have to do is walk! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As you age, memory starts to fade. I constantly find myself searching for some misplaced item. I ransack my house only to find the missing culprit right in front of me in plain sight or, as in the case of my cell phone last week, in the recycle bin! Don’t ask! It gets worse as your diligently seek the lost item and then suddenly can’t remember what it is you are looking for—a double whammy! Now what was I saying? I forgot—never mind!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My social life has definitely changed because of my advancing years. I find myself spending more time going to doctor appointments than I do having lunch with my friends. What is even more distressing is that some weeks I use my medical card more than my debit card. I actually think I have more doctors than I do friends on Facebook! Now that is depressing! It is sobering life moment when you have to accept the fact that your new BFF’s name (best friends forever) is fiber! How do I love thee—let me count the ways!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Another big change for me in my twilight years revolves around my sense of style. My fashion credo simply stated: &nbsp;If it’s not the big C (comfortable) then it’s not for me! My old age idea of a sexy negligée are sweats at least one size too big! Evening wear attire consists of jeans, sneakers, and a clean sweatshirt. Well ironed clothes—gone! My thinking on this is: &nbsp;If I don’t iron my clothes then people will think that my crinkly attire and wrinkled skin are all part of my effort to put together a fabulous matching ensemble. Besides, ironing my face would be painful! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Physical changes abound, and every day it seems like you have to adjust to a new normal for your body. Your aging teeth are clinging to life, and the dentist has banned you from eating anything sticky, chewy, hard, or sugary. Your once dazzling white smile has a grayish yellowish tinge. Glasses are your new best friend when you can find them. The phrase “What did you say?” becomes a daily part of your life as you struggle to adjust to hearing loss. What you hear and what is said is not always the same thing. Someone says, “Do you want to go to dinner?” Your reply,” You really think I am looking thinner?” Hearing loss can be difficult in social settings even with a hearing aid; background noise can totally isolate you from the social interaction. Your once unblemished skin is now host to a variety of alien growths and age spots. When your five-year-old granddaughter asks if you are part leopard you have no other choice but to smile sweetly and growl!&nbsp; I often find myself relating stories about some old folk that I encountered or observed. Then reality sets in and I feel obliged to fess up and explain to the listener that these oldsters were my age. Then I feel better until the next time when I end up doing the same thing all over again! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I took out my driver’s license the other day and realized that I now actually look like the worst picture of me ever taken. I must need new glasses because that just can’t be! That woman is old! Say it can’t be true! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As my grandparents and parents aged, they fell into rigid routines of doing everything at the same time every day. I found it amusing and monotonous as a younger person! Well, guess what. I have become them! I eat my meals exactly at the same time every day. I go to bed 11 p.m. sharp and rise at 6:30 a.m. &nbsp;I go for daily walks at a designated time. They would get upset if something disrupted their schedule, and I have become the same way. I have lost a lot of my spontaneity. I addictively crave the comforts and safety of my routines and my home. I must add that I have lived alone for the last 20 years and am sure that has been a major influence on my lack of spirit of adventure. Stepping out of my comfort zone gets harder and harder for me with each advancing year. When I was younger, I promised myself that becoming old and boring would not be an option. I was so wrong!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Would you like some cheese with your whine Shorty? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I could go on and on about this subject, but I won’t. This last leg of our life journey is often referred to as the “Golden Years.” Frankly, on some days they feel more like the “Rusty Years.” They are golden from the standpoint that at this juncture you get to sit back and witness the fruits of your labor. You watch your adult children with pride and love as they follow and fulfill their own dreams.&nbsp; Then a lightning bolt moment strikes, and they grace you with the greatest gift of all–grandchildren.&nbsp; An Irish saying puts it all into perspective, “Children are the rainbow of life. Grandchildren are the Pot of Gold.” Therefore, I can honestly say that yes for sure these are my golden years! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And by the way, Squishy Shortsuff prefers chocolate with her whine!<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">-- Valerie S.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">Nov. 15, 2016</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-23927871006738619562016-11-17T21:55:00.003-08:002016-11-17T21:55:58.055-08:00REMEMBERING JEANNE RIVERS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal">The following is one of my writing class members remembering another classmate for her coming memorial. &nbsp;Jeanne died of cancer earlier this month.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">A building in Portland (Oregon) was named after her for the work she did for others. It is unusual for a a person to be living and have an ediface named in their honor. &nbsp;She was very modest about it, and after another class member and I spotted her name emblazed upon the multi-story building, we pressed her for the story behind the naming. She complied and admited that she was indeed the same Jeanne Rivers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It is unusal for me to post this type of writing, but she was very special to our community and to our class. Anne has captured a wonderful view of this grand lady. &nbsp;Thank you Anne.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">REMEMBERING JEANNE RIVERS<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I didn’t know Jeanne well, but I remember chatting with her briefly as we pulled out our car keys after Emily Aulicino’s writing class at the Woodstock Community Center. When she mentioned having worked on Skid Row we discovered an acquaintance in common. Jeanne had been on the Hooper Detox team scooping up the inebriated who were out of control or comatose on the streets of Portland’s inner city. Sister Kate St. Martin had practiced her nursing skills among the hotel dwellers around West Burnside. Among that idiosyncratic community their paths often crossed. Jeanne offered to lend me her copy of the book* that Kate and Ron Talarico collaborated to write about Kate’s Burnside encounters. I appreciated the insight it gave me into a unique ministry that was Kate’s, but also Jeanne’s.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Jeanne wrote with the same ironic and clear-eyed wit that characterized her conversation. Her tangible descriptions allowed her listeners to accompany her in walking back into her memories. Two of her childhood stories stand out in my recollection. In one she recreated her family’s camping out in the hop fields around Mt. Angel, Oregon as they brought in the harvest as migrant laborers. As a little girl she tagged along wherever her family could find work. The second chronicle was of her wading into the swampy waters of Lake Oswego on a hot summer day (that just happened to be the day World War II ended) under the indiscriminate supervision of her older sister. Only the inner tubes to which three of them clung had any experience with floating or swimming.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I have already missed Jeanne’s vibrant presence amidst our writing group. She has left a bright legacy of relationships behind her.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; --Anne C.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">*<u>Fire in the Dark: Making a Difference in the World</u> by Ron Talarico<o:p></o:p></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-53545073566559357892016-10-06T17:32:00.001-07:002016-10-06T17:32:51.604-07:00 UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL-WORKING IN A MAXIMUM SECURITY CLASSROOM<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Most everyone supports the premise that teaching is one of noblest and most important professions. At the age of 21, I embarked on my chosen career path as a high school Spanish and English teacher in the small town of Brasher Falls in upstate NY. During this interval, I added a Master’s Degree and an administrative certificate to my resume. Years later on the opposite side of the country in Wenatchee, Washington, I found myself endowed with the dubious title of “correctional educator.” This change required an additional endorsement -- special education. For 20 years, I would practice the art of teaching at the Chelan County Juvenile Justice Center, a maximum-security facility.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It didn’t take me long to discover that this new direction came with its own set of specialized demands, challenges and mandates set forth by the Department of Corrections. My traditional classroom management style of the past would not be effective in this environment. It was like entering another world -- a subculture of society. I felt like I had become the Cinderella of the educational biosphere, “Cinderella do this, Cinderella do that.” People often asked me if I was an authentic teacher, and my fellow colleagues in the “real” schools did not show me the respect I deserved. At times, I felt professionally ostracized and devalued just like Cinderella.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Most teachers enter their building through the main entrance. Not me! Every morning I had to stand outside a secure metal-monitored door and push a buzzer. I would be asked to identify myself and required to hold up my county issued ID for the camera. After this routine, the door would stridently buzz and unlock. The beastly gate required all my upper body strength to tug it ajar. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">It would then magically slam shut behind me with a deafening and chilling clanking clamor. I had to repeat this procedure at two more doors before I was in the actual bowels of the edifice. A short hallway brought me to my first destination -- the control room or as it was fondly known: the command center. Inside this room were the switches to every door and camera in the building. Its strategic placement and elevated stature gave it a panoramic view of all zones. The darkened one-way glass contributed to its ominous appearance. I then pushed a buzzer and a metal drawer would slide out delivering my keys and the daily roster.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My keys did not give me access to my classroom. Once again, I had to push a buzzer and have the door opened for me. I was virtually locked in my room and needed to buzz to exit, too. The unlocking instruments were strictly for my desk, cupboards, closet, and the interior office area. Everything had to remain locked at all times. My room was crafted from ceiling to floor with bulletproof glass windows on two sides and drab institutional yellowish cinder blocks on the others. It was like working in a fishbowl-on display at all times. The room was outfitted with multiple cameras scrutinizing your every action.&nbsp; The space was also wired for sound meaning that someone heard every word uttered. Four bright red buttons tactically placed added a much-needed pop of color to this bland background. They were smartly embossed in bright white letters that said PANIC providing yet another possibly lifesaving resource if needed. Next order of the day was to retrieve my two-way radio from the inner office. I was required to have it on my person every minute that I was in juvenile -- another lifeline. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mundane items that most teachers take for granted like pencils, paper, staples, paperclips, pens, etc. now had new monikers -- deadly weapons and instruments of destruction. Writing utensils were used in several stabbings of inmates and staff during my resident stay. To minimize the risk, I was required to personally hand out and retrieve individual pencils. If they needed sharpening, I did it. If the lead went missing at any point then the student was obligated to crawl around on the charcoal color carpet to find it. If that did not happen, the students were removed one at a time from class and searched. Being caught with the evidence resulted in a three-day confinement to their room. Pencil lead can be used to stick in veins and tag cells. During art class, the kids were handed a clear plastic container of assorted supplies. An inventory of the contents was prominently displayed on the front. I had to regulate this constantly and recount every item in the box upon its return. It was very time consuming. If anything came up missing, the kids knew the drill. Gang Graffiti antics was always a concern. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I previously mentioned the evils of staples, paperclips and paper. Staples and paperclips could be used to pierce veins or other body parts such as eyes or ears or used as a last resort to keep holes open for tongue and nose rings etc. They could also be adeptly fashioned into makeshift tattoo devices and therefore not allowed in the classroom. &nbsp;Paper was my archenemy. We had to have it to do our work, but it was the catalyst for my biggest source of classroom disciplinary infractions. Tagging or defacing a paper in any way resulted in a time out and loss of school points for the day. Consequently, that affected their overall program score in detention and resulted in the loss of certain privileges. Missing corners or other torn off pieces meant a classroom&nbsp;</span>lock-down<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;and staff search. These could be used to exchange phone numbers, make threats or plot heinous crimes within the facility.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nothing left the classroom with the kids. At first, I naively let them borrow books but soon found out that they would be desecrated with graffiti, sexual slurs or even ripped apart and used to back up the toilets and flood their cells. I learned that lesson the hard way. One thing I did not have to fret over was inappropriate dress. Inmates were required to wear a hospital scrub like uniform. The boy’s was a dark drab army green while the girls donned a dowdy&nbsp;</span>khaki<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;tan. Everyone wore a short sleeve white cotton tee shirt under their top and white socks sheltered their feet. Shoes were deemed potential weapons and banned. During the winter months, the building remained quite cool and the kids sat in class shivering while trying to do their schoolwork. I always felt guilty wrapped cozily in a warm sweater.&nbsp; When I first started the journey, the students were allowed to wear sweatshirts but after using them to clog toilets, choke staff and other inmates and for self-harming purposes they took on the nomenclature of dangerous liability and the privilege of warmth relegated to the past.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Something as simple as taking my class to the computer lab always turned into a big, involved production. I had to make a request and wait until staff was available to escort us the 10 feet. It required being buzzed in and out of both rooms. The computer lab was similar in design to my classroom with the bulletproof glass and&nbsp;</span>cinder-block<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;walls, mirroring the same color scheme. I jokingly asked one time if a gun had ever made it into the secure area and was surprised by the response. “Yes! Several times.” &nbsp;Eventually they were recovered during a cell search. Many knives and other contraband occasionally circumvent the intake process too. “The staff member glibly added, “You may not be as safe as you think back here.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Custodial staff uniforms consisted of jeans, blue-collared polo shirts imprinted with the justice center logo and sneakers. They also donned the required utility belt housing mandated items. They were issued embossed navy blue sweatshirts. Although I was employed by Wenatchee School District, I was operating on the county owned property of the Justice Center and the&nbsp;</span>inter-agency<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;agreement between the two entities required me to comply with all rules, regulations and mandates set forth by Juvenile. Therefore, I was given a dress code which was similar to staff, but it allowed me the flexibility of not wearing the exact same thing every day. It made it easy to get ready for work, and I loved the causal and comfortable attire. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The innards of the detention edifice were windowless. It was like working underground. There was no natural light to brighten your day just the oppressive glare of fluorescent. The minute you set foot in the building, you felt cut off from the outside world, isolated -- quarantined. There was no stepping out for a breath of fresh air or the touch of the sun to warm your soul. The fortress seemed impenetrable. The classroom itself was an anomaly in comparison to its stark surroundings. It was like an unexpected oasis. It was typical of what you would see in a “regular” school setting. There were the standard student desks, overflowing bookshelves, student artwork plastering the walls and motivational posters purposefully placed. It was bright, cheery, warm, cozy, colorful and most importantly welcoming and comfortable a direct contrast to the rest of the monotonous institution decor. The students loved classroom #2. Every one of them, in some way, had contributed to the&nbsp;</span>ambiance<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;and with ownership came pride. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There is also the teaching component that needs to be addressed. My coed charges ranged in age from 8-18. Most of them were academically-behaviorally challenged requiring serious remedial intervention. Those that still actively enrolled in school were provided their own work. This last group was the minority. For the majority I was required to design individualized&nbsp;</span>curriculum<span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;based on their performance levels derived from a battery of tests. Many of my students were in special education and I was responsible for revising their IEPs (Individualized Education Program) while they resided in my program. Trying to get parents down to the juvenile facility for IEP meetings was a nightmare. The average class size was around 14, but fluctuated on a daily basis. The faces changed constantly. Some kids were there for two hours before going to court and being released and others remained for months on end. It was like a revolving door -- round and round, in-and-out, in-and-out. There are also many interruptions to deal with during school time. Staff is constantly calling for kids to go to court, or to meet with lawyers and probation officers. More of the in-and-out, in-and-out syndrome. It is very disruptive and impedes the already questionable focus of others. All communication is done via the two-way radios. This frequent chatter is another problematic concertation buster that you learn to endure. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Upon departing at night, my morning routine is reversed. I enter the inner office and secure my two-way radio. I check to make sure my desk, closet, cupboards, and office door are locked. I then buzz my door, approach the control room, deposit my keys, and school points sheet in the waiting drawer. I retrace my footsteps and buzz through three doors, and each time the aftermath of the banging metal clamor resonates through my body. Finally, out on the street I take a deep breath of fresh air and remind myself how lucky and thankful that at the end of the day I am able to regain my freedom and go home to my family. My students are not as blessed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The working environment of a correctional educator is definitely unique. You are constantly juggling your teaching duties with the safety and security demands dictated by another agency. It is an extreme sport, of sorts, with danger lurking around every twist and turn. There is never a dull moment and no two days are ever the same. It is addicting. How many people can say that after 20 years on a job? In the end, all I can say is that yes, I would do it all over again in a heartbeat. I do not regret one moment of that amazing experience. I loved that job, and it made me a better human being. I was blessed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A special thanks to all my students. I will never forget you!&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Valerie S.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">August 14, 2016<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thank you Valerie for sharing a very interesting and unique teaching position. &nbsp;It surely makes my teaching experience a cake-walk!</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-87857939025046659882016-10-06T16:32:00.000-07:002016-10-06T16:32:24.443-07:00The Great Depression and World War II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As history is constantly moving us forward, and often too quickly, it is wonderful to know some who have experienced eras in the past that most people only know from history books. &nbsp;For someone to have experienced major events first hand, it is rewarding to read of their personal view. &nbsp;I'm honored to share with you Jeanne's childhood memories of this time in Oregon. Jeanne wrote this while a member of my writing class.</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The Great Depression and World War II<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">For the past week I’ve been watching “The Roosevelts” on TV, Ken Burns’ latest serial about American life.&nbsp; I was born in December of 1934, and FDR was the president throughout my childhood.&nbsp; The events portrayed were happening as I grew up.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Until I was seven we lived in Northeast Portland.&nbsp; The Great Depression was apparent everywhere around us.&nbsp; Fortunately, my dad always had a good job; we lived in a nice house and had plenty to eat.&nbsp; That wasn’t true for some of our extended family.&nbsp; I remember my mom making food boxes for my dad to deliver to aunts and cousins who had no work.&nbsp; There were abandoned houses in our neighborhood because families had to move out due to the lack of employment.&nbsp; Almost every day single men would knock on our door and ask my mother if they could work for food.&nbsp; Sometimes she had no work for them but fed them anyway.&nbsp; They would sit on our front steps, balancing a plate on their knees and silently eat whatever she served them. I was four or five years old and very curious about these people, but I don’t remember them acknowledging me in any way.&nbsp; It seemed to me they were slightly embarrassed by their circumstances.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; One time when I was riding in the car with my dad we stopped at a light and there on the corner was an older woman, sitting on a couch with all her belongings piled around her.&nbsp; I had never seen such a thing.&nbsp; When I inquired about it my dad said she had been evicted by the sheriff because she didn’t pay her rent.&nbsp; I asked my dad where she would go.&nbsp; He didn’t seem too concerned or interested, but I was very upset by it.&nbsp; When I was older, I realized he must have seen similar circumstances all the time as he drove around Portland.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In April of ’42 my parents bought a house in the country.&nbsp; We sat on a hill overlooking Tigard, Bull Mountain and the Coast Range mountains.&nbsp; At that time we were really out in the country; all the growth in that area occurred after the war.&nbsp; I think my parents moved there because people believed there was a real threat of the Japanese invading the west coast or at least bombing the cities.&nbsp; No one knew what might happen, and people and the government became very irrational as witnessed by the interment of the innocent Japanese-American citizens.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In school we learned what to do in a bombing raid (get under the desk; stay away from windows) and were paired with another student who lived very close to school so we could go to their house with them if there was time.&nbsp; I decided right away that I would run the mile to my house rather than be with strangers.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Every residential area was assigned a Fire Marshall for their district.&nbsp; This was a neighbor who came around periodically to make sure you had a bucket of sand, a shovel and a fire extinguisher in case of an incendiary bomb attack.&nbsp; No outside lights were allowed at night and windows were covered with blackout shades so no light was visible from the outside.&nbsp; Car travel at night was restricted, and cars that must be out had special headlight shades installed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; All kinds of good were rationed and some weren’t available at all.&nbsp; Meat, sugar, butter, and coffee all required ration stamps to purchase as did shoes, tires and gasoline.&nbsp; Many people had Victory Gardens.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; We observed more signs of war as time went on: convoys of hundreds of Army trucks and jeeps going form Camp Adair near Corvallis to Fort Lewis, squadrons of bombers coming and going from who knows where.&nbsp; Everything was “Top Secret”. “Loose Lips Sink Ships” was the motto of the day.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">One day my four-year-old brother was playing outside by himself.&nbsp; He came tearing into the house, his eyes huge.&nbsp; He pulled on my mother’s clothes, “Mama, mama, look! There’s ……..somethin’!? The “somethin’” was a huge blimp form the Tillamook Naval Air Station handing right over the house so low my mother said you could clearly see the people inside.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It was an interesting and scary time.&nbsp; Then we entered another scary time when school kids once again had to practice for attacks. It was called “The Cold War.”<o:p></o:p></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">Jeanne R.<o:p></o:p></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">1 Oct 2014<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Enjoy,</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Emily</o:p></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-85338568760478682632016-09-03T17:26:00.000-07:002016-09-03T17:26:07.226-07:00I AM FROM ST. JOHNS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I asked my writing class a few years ago to do a poem about themselves. &nbsp;Although the poem is called an I Am Poem, it is not the same as you often find on the internet.<br /><br />Sharon H. has submitted her poem to the blog, but what is even more wonderful is that a copy of her poem was posted on five windows of a building in front of a bus stop in her neighborhood. What an honor and what a statement about this wonderful neighborhood in times past.<br /><br />Several members of the writing class met her for lunch and to view the poem. &nbsp;Below is a photo of Sharon and the store front rendition. &nbsp;Below is the full poem. &nbsp;I hope you enjoy it as much as the class did.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">I AM FROM ST. JOHNS</div><br />I am from the wrong side of the cut.<br />The place where two powerful rivers meet<br />beneath the majestic bridge that frames St. Johns<br />The same bridge my mother threatens to jump from<br />when I misbehave.<br />The same polluted rivers that tempt me<br />on hot summer days.<br /><br />I am from the working man's end of town<br />where the drums of the Salvation Army Band on the corner<br />drown out the western music blaring from the beer joints<br />I am from the smoke of the mills,<br />of ship's horns blowing in the quiet of night<br />to signal the bridge tender<br />A place where men carry lunch boxes<br />and women wear house dresses.<br /><br />I am form World War 2, March of Dimes,<br />paper drives, rations, and 3 Roses whiskey.<br />I am Pug, the skinny girl with freckles and braids<br />named for her twin in the funny papers.<br />I am the first grandchild backward, awkward and mismatched.<br />Entertained and spoiled by bachelor uncles who smoke<br />Camel cigarettes and shoot craps at family gatherings.<br /><br />I am from Saturday matinees with<br />Filipino babies impaled on Japanese bayonets and<br />Sunday drives with Japanese children playing<br />behind barbed wire.<br />I am from double Bubble gum, penny licorice, roller skates with keys and<br />handball played off the bricks of James John grade school.<br />I am from skinny legs with skinned knees<br />barefoot in the dry summer grass<br />barefoot in the warm summer rain.<br />Of robins and earthworms in the newly spaded garden<br />The quiet hum of honey bees in the sun and<br />angry roaring bumble bees in glass coffee jars<br /><br />I am from the delicate Trillium growing on the dense forest floor<br />on Dixie mountain.<br />I am from the cold clear water from grandma's witched-well there.<br />I am from sweet goats milk I drink to fatten me up and<br />bitter tea made from Oregon Grape root to keep me healthy<br />I am from milk toast and Ovaltine, served with<br />cod liver oil and iodine.<br />I am from white bucks, kick pleats and horseshoe bangs.<br /><br />I am from Western swing playing on the polished Philco console<br />on Saturday afternoons while supper cooked.<br />Playing again on Saturday nights with grownups<br />dancing on the faded linoleum floor.<br />Songs and guitar music flowing as fast as the alcohol<br />All seen from behind the cracked bedroom door.<br /><br />I am from summers spent in saltwater and sand<br />with tide pools of starfish and sea anemone which close<br />at the touch of my toe.<br />I am looking for agates and swimming in the surf.<br />I am fishing for shiners from the mooring basin and<br />waiting for the changing tide.<br />I know the changes -- low tide, slack tide, high tide.<br />I see rust and corrosion, fog and mist, South and North jetties.<br />I hear diesel engines thumping as they pass the buoys<br />tossing and clanging in the chop.<br />I see Fishermen watching and waiting at the Yaquina Bay bar.<br />I hear Sea gulls squawking, fighting for fish scraps on their return.<br /><br />I am from the canneries on the waterfront that<br />spew their waste into the bay<br />their smell defining the small fishing town of Newport<br />I am from shucked crab, clams and hotcakes for breakfast<br />thick white slabs of halibut, and salmon every day<br />fried, pickled, creamed, poached, and smoked<br />gorging all the while "the little children in China starve"<br /><br />I am from "set up straight", "it's snowing down south", "slick as snot"<br />and "hotter than a sheriff's pistol".<br />I am from unions, solidarity and equal rights<br />An injury to one is an injury to all<br />I am form fair and square.<br />I am form St. Johns<br /><br />Sharon H.<br />Feb 2011<br />James John Grade School 1942-1950<br />Roosevelt High School 1950-1954<br />ILWU Local 8 1980-1999<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1S-qbokT3aI/V8tpsqjoYyI/AAAAAAAAn-E/UT7wLcUTRmwPfj5UysiTHOKnPndFN9FygCLcB/s1600/Sharon%2Band%2BI%2BAm%2BPoem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1S-qbokT3aI/V8tpsqjoYyI/AAAAAAAAn-E/UT7wLcUTRmwPfj5UysiTHOKnPndFN9FygCLcB/s320/Sharon%2Band%2BI%2BAm%2BPoem.jpg" width="299" /></a></div><br /><br />Thank you Sharon for a look at the past in your neighbor.<br />Emily<br />3 Sept 2016<br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-9831272348193498502016-08-04T20:37:00.000-07:002016-08-04T20:37:24.041-07:00THE BAD DAY AT WORK<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="border-bottom: solid #4F81BD 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-themecolor: accent1; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 4.0pt 0in;"> <h2 style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We’ve all had our bad days. When you are having a difficult time, just reread the following story submitted by Valerie, a member of my writing class.&nbsp; AND…can you imagine the job she jumped into after this one!<o:p></o:p></span></div></h2><h2 style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></h2><h2 style="text-align: center;"><b>THE BAD DAY AT WORK</b></h2><div class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">Wenatchee, Washington 1991</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Having a bad day at work goes with the territory; ask anyone. There is one particular day that I will never forget. It was beyond bad! It was a nightmare and unfortunately, I was wide-awake for the entire ordeal. At the time, I was employed by EPIC, an early childhood agency that provided daycare programs for low-income migrant families in the Wenatchee area. I served in a dual capacity…facility director and preschool teacher… at the Applewood location. As director, I was required to be on site from opening until close which was from 5:00 a.m. to 6:30 p.m. I was also in charge of supervising the staff of eight. There were seven daycare providers and one cook who also filled in wherever needed. The children ranged in age from one month to five years, and our enrollment this particular month was 45 little angels. Let’s just say for better or worse, everything and everybody depended on me!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My alarm went off at my least favorite time of day 3:00 a.m. I peeked out the window to discover that we were under attack by a torrential downpour that appeared to have taken up permanent residence. I hoped that this was not an omen for how the rest of the day would go. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By 3:45 a.m., I was in the Applewood parking lot and realized that I had forgotten my umbrella. I got drenched! My key would not cooperate, and I couldn’t unlock the door to the building. I stood in the driving rain for five minutes trying to finagle the stupid mechanism. Finally, success!&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I dripped and squished my way down the hall to my office and was promptly greeted by the blinking red light of the message machine. Two of my staff had called in sick, and the cook was going to be an hour late which meant hungry, cranky kids to start the day. Was this day over yet? I felt the start of a headache coming on, and I was shivering and cold from being wet. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Over the next hour, the rest of the staff meandered in and grumpily protested as I informed them of the need to combine rooms due to the staffing shortage. I almost had a full-blown mutiny on my hands when I explained that breakfast would be an hour late. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At 5:00 a.m. the sleepy eyed children began to congregate. They usually arrived and were greeted by a nutritious hot breakfast, but not on this day. Within ten minutes, the building exploded with bawling and tantrums coming from every nook and cranny. Was 5:15 a.m. too early to drink, I wondered? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I scurried from room to room trying to put out the fires before the flames engulfed us all. Two of my staff threatened to leave. I started to sneeze and could feel the beginnings of a cold coursing through my body. My head felt like it was about to split open. Thoughts of fleeing surged through my mind. I reminded myself that according to maritime tradition the captain goes down with his sinking ship if all else fails, and we were sinking fast. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By 6:45 a.m. breakfast was being served, and the morning’s mayhem seemed to be subsiding…or so I thought. At my post in the preschool room, I noticed that several of the kids’ oatmeal bowls had blue specs in them. Upon closer observation it became evident that something that should not be there was in their cereal. I quickly grabbed the affected bowls despite the irate objections of the children. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">OMG!</span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> &nbsp;It was blue gravel from our aquarium. I knew exactly who did it. “<b>LEE,</b>” I bellowed. “”<b>FRONT AND CENTER-NOW! </b>”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lee was the class scoundrel and 9 out of 10 times the instigator of all classroom disasters. Lee appeared with two empty milk cartons in hand. “Where is the milk Lee?” I impatiently inquired. He pointed to the fish tank, which was now a murky white color. By the time I made it to the tank the other students were gathered around crying that their “fishies” were going to die. Grabbing the net, I blindly stabbed into the milky waters hoping against all odds to snare a fish. No such luck. We put a stopper in the sink and cup by cup, we emptied the tank and eventually recovered all six of the missing “Nemos” to the delight of the kids. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We then moved the fish into a large clear bowl until we could properly clean the aquarium for their return. If any of the fish were lactose intolerant they would soon be dead for sure. Crisis averted for now!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Next, I faced the task of cajoling the irritated cook into remaking oatmeal for the preschoolers. Was this day ever going to end? Is it time to go home yet? The clock read 7:30 a.m. You have to be kidding! My pity party was interrupted when a small voice inquired, “Teacher, where did the fish go? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">”Fish? What?” I looked at the bowl, and it was empty. “<b>LEE.”</b> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes teacher” he brazenly replied. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“<b>Where are the</b> <b>fish?”</b> I demanded. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“In the ocean,” he retorted. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“<b>What ocean, Lee</b>?”&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“In there, “and he pointed to the bathroom. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Realizing that their beloved pets had been flushed down the toilet, the reaction was instantaneous. First one child burst into tears, and that led to a spontaneous combustion of sobbing grieving little ones with one exception. Lee was writhing on the floor convulsed by a fit of laughter. My headache now blossomed into a Category 5 tropical storm. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Finally, placated from their fish disaster, we settled onto the rug for story time. Teacher’s helper for the day has to select the story. I consulted the chart and today of all people it was Lee. Wonderful! Lee made a beeline to the shelf and returned grinning like a Cheshire cat with book in hand. I had a bad feeling about this. He had selected “A Fish out of Water.” I nonchalantly took the book and began reading. Lee enjoyed every word…the rest of the class not so much. For the others it was the catalyst for another round of waterworks. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Snack time did little to lift the dampened spirits of the miniature mourners. It was naptime, and with any luck that would give me a few moments to try to regain my now quickly dissolving sanity. The snivelers went down without a fight, exhausted by their harrowing morning. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As the angels peacefully slumbered away, I made a disturbing observation. Several of them were scratching their heads as they slept. A feeling of dread washed over me. “Please, not today,” I lamented. “I don’t know how much more I can take.” After the kids awoke, my helper and I donned our latex gloves. Armed with tongue depressors we did a lice check on everyone in the room. We had a full-fledged lice-a-thon in progress. A lice check in the other rooms confirmed my suspicions that our infestation had taken on global proportions. My skin began to feel creepy crawly, and I began scratching and itching everywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Being a provider for the low-income migrant families, we could not send the children home, but were required to treat them on site. We had no medication available. We needed 40 boxes. I retreated to my office and started calling establishments in search of the needed number of cartons. My third call paid off, and I found a store that had the number needed in inventory. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Driving to my savior’s destination, I itched and scratched all the way. Upon arrival, I made my way back to the pharmacy, and there they had a shopping cart full of the treatment waiting for me. As I wheeled the lice-mobile to the front of the store, people stared at the contents and stepped back from my cart, providing them with a comfortable buffer zone. I felt like shouting “Lice can jump 10 feet you know,” even though I knew it wasn’t true! I wanted them to suffer too! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I unloaded the 40 boxes of RID onto the conveyor belt the lady in front of me gasped in disbelief and got as far away from me as possible. The people behind me went to another line. When it was my turn, the cashier stopped to put on rubber gloves. It was downright embarrassing and humiliating, and I was sure that Lee was responsible! It was a lousy situation for sure.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Back at the center, we spent the rest of the day washing heads and using the nit combs. Next, we sanitized the mats and thoroughly vacuumed and laundered all the blankets. My staff were not happy campers and threatened to quit every 10 minutes. I shared their pain and wanted to abscond just as much as they did…maybe even more! By 6 p.m. all the kiddos had been picked up, and I spent another four hours cleaning and disinfecting. I had arrived in the darkness of morning and fittingly left in the blackness of the night. It had been a day of gloom and doom from beginning to end, and in five hours, I would get to do it all over again. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was a day from which nightmares are born, and one I never want to repeat. I fell into bed and dreamed of super-sized lice taking over the world, dead fish, and yelling “LEE!” The only positive out of the entire escapade was that I did not get lice. Two weeks later, I quit when Wenatchee School District offered me a teaching position at the juvenile center. Writing this memoir is making me itchy!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">August 1, 2016<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Valerie S.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Enjoy!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Emily</span></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-7371079978419689832016-07-25T00:58:00.002-07:002016-07-25T00:58:52.820-07:00MY SACRED SPACE <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal">There is power in poetry. &nbsp;It can tug at our heartstrings, make us laugh, and heal our souls in ways that prose cannot. &nbsp;Speaking in short terms, it allows the space for the reader to fill the gaps based on their own experiences, taking on personal meaning, not unlike the individual's interpretation of works of art.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The following poem was written before Sue B. joined the writing class. As the result of a discussion with her, we concluded that writing an introduction for each poem would provide some background, a setting, or explanation as to why she was moved to write about a particular event. &nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Introduction&nbsp;&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Recently it was Mother’s Day, and I wished I could have looked forward to it and enjoyed it as many women and men do. Unfortunately, I couldn’t as my mother was an alcoholic and a raging one at that. All thru my childhood and later when I was an adult, and especially after my father died when I was 5, things got rough for myself and my siblings. (As a matter of fact, I do not believe I even met the real person my mother was – or became – until 6 months before her death when she became so incapacitated she was no longer able to obtain alcohol by herself – and thus was dried out by her doctors, and I met this sweet woman I had never met before.)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; But especially during my childhood, she was quite the emotional abuser, and her mood swings were vast and her meanness differed widely depending on the time of day and how much she had had to drink. Often she was very harsh in her judgments, “Well, if you have to say you’re sorry for doing it, you wouldn’t have done it in the first place….” Didn’t leave much room for self-acceptance, self-forgiveness, and self-love – much less any of that for others.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; And so I do not have any loving poems written to my mother, or for her, rather she was the inspiration for several poems I have written during my continual healing journey toward my own self-love and wholeness.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">&nbsp;MY SACRED SPACE&nbsp;&nbsp;<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">&nbsp; I have a place within me</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;it is my sacred space &nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">It holds my thoughts, my dreams, my songs</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; no one else's - it is mine and I like it that way,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; in fact - I demand it that way</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">It holds no one else's hopes or truths or joys - just mine</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; so why would anyone else want to take it from me?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">Oh I speak not of the joy of sharing scared space with</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; loved ones - the hold circle of communion -&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">I tell of the opening of the soul without its permission</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">The incision of a scalpel, so small but sharp, the rendering</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; of my insides without even my permission</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">"It is not your right to ask me why or even question how.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Just accept it as my right since I am so big and you</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; are so small, and obviously don't even know right</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; from wrong."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">But I knew....somehow the little voice inside of me remained and&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; whispered always...."That is a lie. &nbsp;You have the right to your</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; insides, your emotions, and the scared space is yours alone&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; (and mine.)"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">But the knives they did not cease, they sliced thru every day, and</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; soon my feelings became the playground of the high and</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; mighty.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">I was taught the games to please and pleasure the giant</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; (Give her what she wants and maybe I'll get out of this alive!)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">But still the abuse went on, year after year, lie after lie,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; and a part of me slowly began to believe...</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">The only good, the only use I have is the playground of this</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; might giant, I have no right to my own emotions, my&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; own scared space</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">My use is to take what she gives me and heal her wounds,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; and sing when she is sad, and laugh when she is mad</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; (to get her out of her ill humor)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">And cry when she needs to vent her anger</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; (so she knows she has hurt someone in her pain)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">"Oh God" I cry, "Not again, will this never cease?"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">It never did, and so I grew up and moved away, and became the</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; perfect fool for any and all kings, giants, or anyone with</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; a scalpel</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">Yes, I learned my lessons well, keep a smiling face, never let</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; anyone know how you fell, and above all else never, never</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; say no.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">For how could the jester jest if she was in a bad mood or laugh</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; and sing and play the fool if she is having a bad day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">"No, you do not have the right to your own emotions,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; keep them at bay,&nbsp;</span><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 15.6933px;">especially</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">&nbsp;when you are on duty every single day."</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">"Now be a good jester, people pleaser, whatever, dance and</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; sing and play, I need my mood uplifted."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">And so it went day after day, year after year....</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; but the little voice within me refused to die</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">And quietly its message continued to echo within the scarred and&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; scared passages inside...</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">"You have the right, the right to your own feelings and emotions.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; It is your scared space and mine to share our communion."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">And somehow thru the years, thru much giving and loving, and my</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; accepting, the message is ringing clearer and clearer</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">Yes, I have the right to my own feelings, my own love, my</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; own laughter, my own giving</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">I give to whom I please, I love whom I please</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; and I know what is you and what is me</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">There is no blurring of the boundaries</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I know who I AM and stronger and stronger</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">And I know who you are outside my healthier</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; walls of self-esteem</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">In fact, I'm okay, I'm growing stronger day by day</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; and I do what I damn well please</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">There is no more open door to my insides, my emotions,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; to do what you will</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I have my own feelings now</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; to do what I will</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">And the little voice inside which has always&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; been my friend....</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I have signed a pact of peace, love</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; and acceptance</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">And we often sit in communication</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; laughing, playing, giggling</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Safe within our scared space of joyous</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; holy communion.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">Thank you for sharing with us Sue!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">&nbsp;Enjoy!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; text-align: center;">Emily &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-46292445232019876882016-05-17T20:58:00.000-07:002016-05-17T20:58:35.722-07:00GRANDMA’S AFTERNOON DELIGHT<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="border-bottom: solid #4F81BD 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-themecolor: accent1; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 4.0pt 0in;"> <div class="MsoTitle">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Portland, Oregon 2016</div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">I am an old woman that lives a very generic, vanilla type lifestyle. I am not wild, adventurous, thrill seeking, or crazy. Well, the jury may still be out on that last one. The only swinging I have ever done in my life is on an actual swing at a playground as a child. Even my daily diet is repetitive, bland, and lackluster. I have always been extremely modest and conservative. I get up at 6:30 a.m. sharp every morning and go to bed at 11:00 p.m. every night like clockwork. I walk my dog three miles a day, rain or shine. A wild day for me would consist of eating a large ice cream cone with sprinkles on top in place of dinner, drinking a glass of wine, and staying up past midnight. Jellybeans and Peeps are my guilty pleasures. My life could be aptly compared to watching grass grow. By the way, sadly, my grass died last summer. I miss my grass! &nbsp;Most of the time, my life is routine, unimaginative, predictable, and downright boring.&nbsp; The afternoon of May 5, 2016 certainly proved to be an exception to the above premise. That Thursday my life bore a striking resemblance to a scene taken straight out of a sleazy romance novel and I, Grandma, was the sexy seductress.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">This is how it all began, and I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">The city of Portland received a $10,000 grant from FEMA to provide and install 400 Flash-Shake-and-Wake smoke detectors for its hard of hearing and deaf residents. The State of Oregon notified me of this opportunity since I am already in possession of a phone for the hearing impaired provided at no cost by a government agency. &nbsp;I went online and completed the required application. A Certification of Eligibility documented by a professional was also required to complete the process. I printed it off and presented it to my audiologist for his signature. I am deaf in my right ear due to a disease called otosclerosis. I have lost almost 70% of the hearing on the left side. I do wear a hearing aid in that ear and for the most part, it makes me functional in social settings. I also read lips. At night I remove my aid and sleep on my left side. As a result, I am incapable of hearing anything including the “wake the dead” decibels produced by my alarm clock or the smoke detector. If either goes off, my dog dances on my head to let me know. &nbsp;Therefore, I jumped at this opportunity. It would not only give me piece of mind, but my kids as well. They fret over me living alone and not being able to hear alarms. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">I was notified by email that I had been approved to receive the special system and that two firefighters would arrive at my home on May 5th at 1:00 p.m. to install the equipment. A home safety audit would also be conducted. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">As promised, the firefighters arrived promptly at 1:00 p.m. As I watched them “strutting their stuff” up the path, my heart skipped a beat. They both looked oh so “fine” in their uniforms. As the hunks got closer to my door, I had to catch my breath! They introduced themselves as inspectors McDreamy and Studmuffin. Up close and personal they were so Hunky Dunky Do!!!&nbsp; Oh if I was only forty years younger. I had to reel my wandering mind back into reality. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">Inspector McDreamy &nbsp;spoke in an extremely loud voice that I was sure everyone within a mile of my house could hear. “<b>DOES&nbsp; A HARD&nbsp; OF HEARING PERSON LIVE HERE?”&nbsp; </b>With a dumbfounded look on my face, I nodded in the affirmative and pointed to myself as a form of identification. “Smooth move Grandma,” I thought. I knew I still had some game left somewhere, and I desperately needed it now! He continued speaking at glass breaking decibels, and I decided to go with the flow and take some Aleve later for the headache he was giving me. The sensual buzz was gone; negated by the decibel situation. It just was not very romantic at all. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">I escorted my men friends into my boudoir to set up my system. I tried to remember the last time I had had two hot men in my room at the same time. The answer had the same effect as getting a bucket of cold water dumped on my head. NEVER!&nbsp; OMG, I am so boring. I was determined that I would not let this opportunity slip through my fingers! Enthusiasm renewed, I was more than happy to comply with the firefighters’ next request when he said, “<b>WOULD YOU PLEASE LIE DOWN ON THE BED FOR US?”</b> He did not have to ask me twice, and I feverishly leapt onto the bed almost missing my intended mark.&nbsp; He was still yelling, but that was a small price to pay for the anticipated outcome. Quickly I took an inventory to make sure I hadn’t hurt myself in my overzealous leap for love. Nothing broken, I gazed up into their smoldering seductive eyes. The look sent shudders throughout my body. I thought to myself, “Grandma, this is your lucky day!” I could hear angels singing and fireworks going off. I lay on the bed in absolute bliss in a sense of anticipation. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">The firefighter placed the bed shaker under my mattress. He activated it and asked in his outdoor voice<b>, “CAN YOU FEEL THE VIBRATIONS?” </b>I shook my head no. He continued to move the shaker in different positions and persistently inquired, “<b>CAN YOU FEEL IT NOW? HOW ABOUT NOW?”</b>The answer was still negative. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">I closed my eyes and willed myself to feel the undulations. I encouraged myself by silently chanting, “Go Grandma, Go Grandma.” My impure thoughts were making me feel so uncatholic and unchaste. However, look at the bright side, not in a million years did I ever imagine that I would be laying on a vibrating bed on a Thursday afternoon with two hot firefighters standing over me. At my age, it doesn’t get any better than that. I can dream, can’t I?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">Unfortunately, I felt nothing and began to wonder if my body was half-dead. In the end, we placed the shaker under my pillow. The firefighter must have sensed my frustration and offered up the excuse that the mattress was probably too thick. They say as you get older everything on your body hangs to the south. In my case some of my body has left the country! Now all I have to look forward to is shaken senior syndrome or whiplash from the vibrations of the shaker under my pillow. So much for Grandma’s Afternoon Delight. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">The bedroom scene played out we moved on to the safety check. The firefighters complimented me on my orderly home and talked about some of the hoarding situations they had seen. “Really guys? We just shared an intimate rendezvous in the bedroom and all you want to talk about is my orderly house? I mused. The story of my life! <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">Before they left, I asked them to take a selfie with me. &nbsp;Good naturedly they agreed. We got up close and personal, and I felt my sensual buzz reviving. I explained that the picture was for my senior memoir writing class –proof that I was not fabricating this story. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">Inspector McDreamy then asked in his outdoor voice, <b>“ARE ALL THE SENIORS IN YOUR MEMOIR CLASS LOOPED?”</b> <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><b><br /></b></div><div class="MsoBodyText">Quizzically I replied, “Looped? Heavens no! The last class of each session we bring food, but other than that the only substance we consume is water.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">He laughed and said, <b>“LOOPED AS IN A HEARING LOOP WIRE RUN AROUND THE ROOM HOOKED UP TO A MICROPHONE FOR THE SPEAKER. IT ENABLES PEOPLE WITH HEARING AIDS TO HEAR MORE CLEARLY.”</b> <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><b><br /></b></div><div class="MsoBodyText">I let out a big sigh of relief as I replied, “In that case I can honestly say that no one in my class is looped!’ See memoir mates--I always have your backs!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">As they left, they hugged me and thanked me for a fun time! I knew I still had game! They said I was one of the nicest women they had ever met. I asked them to put it in writing as proof, and they did. I was going to bring it to class, but my dog ate it! Bad dog!&nbsp; This is the true story of Grandma’s almost afternoon delight! Maybe next week I will call the police department and see what they can do for Grandma! Until then, back to living the life of an old lady! <o:p></o:p></div><br /><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;--Valerie S. May 9, 2016<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">I hope all of you enjoy this, our writing class sure did!</div><div class="MsoBodyText">Thank you Valerie!</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">Emily</div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-59403762992073831072016-02-23T12:04:00.002-08:002016-02-25T10:44:01.626-08:00The Elephant Ladies and the Original Sports Stadium Wave<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Did you ever wonder about how college students entertained themselves at losing football games? About the crazy ideas inspired by youth and liquid refreshments? Did you ever consider the origin of a very famous audience participation activity that has become internationally known in team sports? Well, other sources claim the glory, but this is the real story behind The Wave.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Guest blogger, Don M., a member of my writing class, was gracious to share his story...</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">It was September 1972, and I was an 18-year-old freshman at the University of Washington. &nbsp;One the reasons that I attended the college was to watch the football games that I had heard on the radio and had watched on TV but had never attended.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">I not only attended the game, but in a few years, I would be part of initiating something that people see every day at stadiums throughout the world. &nbsp;It was the original stadium wave where the crowd stands up in unison to create a wave-like motion throughout the stadium. &nbsp;The UW student section also witnessed a herd of Elephant Ladies along with the wave.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Several so called "cheerleaders", like crazy George of the Oakland Athletics baseball team in 1981, claim to have actually organized this phenomena, but just like &nbsp;<i>Animal House</i>, the movie about a rowdy college fraternity, it was a bunch of drunken students that actually started the famous sports stadium wave.&nbsp;</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">I'm surprised that the 10,000+ students during the 1973-74 Husky Football season have not risen in unison to tell the world about the famous Sports Stadium Wave's actual conception.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">After the 1972 Sonny Sixkiller era, a Cherokee Indian Quarterback, the team went into several losing seasons before Don James was hired as the football coach in 1975. &nbsp;</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">The students kept chanting, "Fire Jim Owens! Fire Jim Owens!" &nbsp;They even wore buttons to promote the firing of then Coach Jim Owens.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Rob Weller, the lead cheerleader, now a reporter for the Home Garden Network, wanted to quiet the drunken student crowd form yelling at Coach Owens. &nbsp;Weller and the cheerleaders controlled the angry crowd with laughter from the student section by creating and seeking amateur comic routines from anyone and everyone.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">One of the most requested routines was created by one of the lady band members who did her famous Elephant Lady routine. &nbsp;The marching band uniform had a large zipper in the front of the pants and also large white pockets, so when you turned the pockets inside out, they looked like large elephant ears. &nbsp;The co-ed band member, named Elephant Lady, would turn her pants pockets inside out to form the elephant ears, and then she would stick her hand and arm through the zipper opening which was supposed to look like the trunk of the elephant.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">The Elephant Lady was pleased with her new "trunk" and said that her trunk could do all sorts of tricks. &nbsp;She proudly stuck both arms through the zipper and announced that her female&nbsp;species&nbsp;of elephant had two trunks. &nbsp;She would then show off her two trunks by doing new&nbsp;tricks at each football game, like juggling or somehow playing her saxophone. The Elephant Lady then started to recruit more elephant ladies form the band until there was a herd of elephant ladies who had all sorts of tricks and magic that they could perform with their trunks. &nbsp;As the losing season went along, the football team got worse, but the team and herd of UW band elephant ladies got better and saved the football season.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">The Elephant Lady kept the student section laughing during the 1973 season and saved Coach Jim Owens' job that year. &nbsp;Most of the elephant ladies graduated in 1974, so without their distractions for the students, the Tyee Alumni asked that Jim Owens also graduate into retirement at the end of that year. &nbsp;He was fired.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Another activity to calm the rowdy student section was the famous "brown bag check". Each student section was designated by different season ticket colors. &nbsp;The 10 yard to the end zone tickets were white, the 10 to 25 yard section was green, the 25 to 40 yard section was gold, and the 40 to 50 yard section was purple.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Most of the students had brought alcohol into the stadium, as long as it was in a "brown bag" to be discrete. &nbsp;Then it was generally accepted because there was honor among&nbsp;thieves&nbsp;in the&nbsp;student section; we all looked out for each other to make sure that a&nbsp;friend&nbsp;didn't go too overboard with drinking.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Stan and I were friends since childhood, and as UW students we did our part with the&nbsp;preparation&nbsp;of&nbsp;our bottle-in-a-brown-bag by getting the cheapest and most powerful&nbsp;alcohol&nbsp;to&nbsp;sneak in and to blend it with a large bottle of Pepsi or Coke to create his semi-like cherry cola that tasted more like bad cough syrup, but we didn't care because it got us to be a couple of cheap drunks by the second quarter. &nbsp;We would get a bottle of Mogen David 20/20 from our friend JP who had a fake ID. &nbsp;Mogen David is widely known as "Mad Dog". &nbsp;Originally, the "20/20" stood for 20 ounces at 20%&nbsp;alcohol&nbsp;by volume.&nbsp;&nbsp;Currently, MD 20/20 is neither sold in 20 ounce bottles nor at 20%, but is actually about 13-18% depending upon the flavor.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">After the band played the song "Tequila", Rob Weller would start to ask each section to stand and raise their brown bags to see how many students were drinking. &nbsp;Each section would stand, cheer and "wave" their brown bags.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Weller would say, "How about the green section???!!! And the green&nbsp;section&nbsp;of about 3,000&nbsp;students would stand, cheer and wave their brown bags. &nbsp;Weller would then say, "How&nbsp;about&nbsp;the purple section???!!!. &nbsp;That section, also about 3,000 students, would stand, cheer, and wave.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Once, Weller just happened to ask the white section near the end-zone, then he asked the adjacent green section, then the gold and finally the purple section, which ended up being in sequence form the end zone to the 50-yard line at mid-field. &nbsp;He started laughing and said that this sequential brown bag check made that side of the stadium look like a "wave", and then he started to ask the student section to repeat the born bag check in the same sequence, but to do it faster.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">He shouted "white, then green, then gold, then purple". &nbsp;He paused for a moment and laughed as he continued with "white, then green, then gold, then purple, then white, then green, then gold, then purple". &nbsp;He began to sound like a train engineer conducting this stadium wave with his cheering directions and laughing over the microphone and large speakers.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Soon Rob started to organize the wave onthe north side of the stadium with the student "brown bag check".</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">In the 1970's, the NCAA would allow student&nbsp;section&nbsp;leaders to have huge speakers to lead the students with their cheers. &nbsp;These speakers were like the ones&nbsp;used on aircraft carriers which are six-feet in diameter. Rob had the cheerleaders turn the west side speaker toward the closed bowl of the stadium so half of the crowd could now understand what was being organized. &nbsp;After the crowd saw the student wave and heard the instructions on the west-end speaker, gradually the rest of the stadium caught on and the wave started from the student section and continued all the way over to the south end toward the alumni section, the Tyees.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">If someone at KOMO TV station in Seattle could find some 1974 archive of the "Husky Highlight" films, the old Jim Owens TV show with the KOMO sports&nbsp;anchor&nbsp;Bruce King, then&nbsp;you would see the wave in the background.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">The University of Washington tries to hide the real origin of the wave by stating that the band director along with Rob Weller, then retired, came back in 1981 to organize a method for The Wave with&nbsp;instructions&nbsp;and everything, but it was, in truth, a bunch of drunken students who accidentally and proudly raised their bottles in brown bags to form the original stadium crowd wave along with the ghost of the past herd of elephant ladies playing tricks with their trunks of the previous year.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">It was not in 1981, but it was back in the dark, losing Husky days of 1973-74.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">-- Don M. (Class of 1978)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Thank you Don!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Enjoy!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;">Emily</span></span></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-46991686682663145922015-06-15T19:11:00.005-07:002015-06-15T19:12:31.432-07:00A Farewell Tribute to My Love by Valerie S.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h1 style="margin-top: 0in; text-align: justify;"><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;Cambria&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Attractions can be very strong, almost to the point of obsession.&nbsp; Most of us show a strong need to have someone or something in our life that is hard to leave behind. Valerie tells us of her past love, and the strong hold it had on her.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;Cambria&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;Cambria&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">A&nbsp; Farewell Tribute to My Love<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Love can make you do anything, including sacrifice for what would be better in the end. Everything seems brighter, happier, and wonderful when you are in love. It is an unconditional affection with no limits. The feeling it generates warms your heart and brings you serenity. It is a powerful word and not to be tossed about flippantly. Alfred Lord Tennyson’s renowned quote states, “It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” This is my love story. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">It all began some 40 years ago. The first encounter was definitely not some tawdry prearranged clandestine lust filled rendezvous. It was not like that with us and never developed into anything of the sort.&nbsp; Our love was pure and irreproachable. From the very first time, I touched my lips to his mouth and tasted his sweetness, I knew. My resolve recklessly abandoned me like a lost balloon jerked from a child’s hand by a violent gust of wind.&nbsp; The chemistry between us was instantaneous. The bond was undeniable. &nbsp;For the next forty years, he would be by my side. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">According to society’s dictated criterions of attractiveness, he would never attain a position or honorable mention in the category labeled “beautiful people.” &nbsp;That never mattered to me. It was not about looks and it never had been. He was a short man with a barrel like chest. This feature made him seem even shorter and stouter. His rather short neck sat atop his plump chest giving him an almost comical look. &nbsp;Yet every time I saw him, I was not looking at the outward appearance, but instead blinded by the bright light of his intrinsic value and what he brought into my life. It was powerful and all consuming. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">He was not a charmer in any sense of the word, but his presence was seductive and compelling. He unfalteringly remained at my side through thick and thin over the many years we were together.&nbsp; He picked me up when I was down. He always came eagerly when I reached out for him and never a harsh word passed between us. When life overwhelmed me, I turned to him for comfort. When I was exhausted, his fortitude propelled me forward. He was my constant in an unpredictable universe. He was very altruistic never requesting or demanding anything in return. It was all about me! It was always that way. He was my everything. I often chuckled aloud as I playfully referred to him as my guilty pleasure!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">He was my constant and faithful companion. Friends and family often joked that we were like conjoined twins: but our relationship was far from symbiotic. I was incapable of providing him the same level of gratification and comfort that I greedily usurped from his being. He never once complained! He unconditionally accepted me for who I was. Not one iota of judgment or reproach ever crossed his lips. He was my safe port on a stormy day. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">It was not always as idyllic as it sounds. Over the years, I ended things with him on several occasions. &nbsp;During these interludes, I thought about him repeatedly almost to the point of being obsessive. My friends and family would encourage me to move forward and not look back.&nbsp; It was easy for them to minimize his importance in MY life. If circumstances reversed, their viewpoint might be totally altered.&nbsp; So time after time, I summoned him back into my life and as submissively as he always departed, he returned. Once again, all was right with my world. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">There came a point in my life were I was beginning to realize that the liaison was dysfunctional and not in my best interest. This time was different from the times before that I had half heartily terminated things. The stakes were higher and the end payoff indisputably greater. Our last night together was bittersweet. I conveyed to him with emotionally charged sentiment how much he had meant to me over the years. I thanked him from the depths of my heart for being my rock, my anchor, (and chuckling) my guilty pleasure. He sat quietly before me taking it all in and as always, he remained the ultimate consummate gentleman.&nbsp; “I love you, “I gushed. “You will always be a part of me. That will never change. We shared the good times together and weathered many a storm. I will not forget you. ““What you and I shared is priceless, “I blurted all this out my eyes blinded by tears. &nbsp;There was no more talk and gently caressing him, we walked to the door for our final goodbye. He was gone. This time it was forever!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Many a time, I have found myself frequenting our favorite haunts in hopes that I might catch a glimpse of him. My intention is not to reunite, but just to absorb the energy his essence exudes. It is comparable to basking in the sunshine and soaking up that wonderful warm feeling. It radiates to your heart and soul touching every part of your body giving you that inviting restful sensation. Many times our paths have crossed in these familiar settings. I always keep my distance and make sure that he is not aware of my presence. I do this not out of respect for him, but the temptation of being so close in proximity is just too risky for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">There are times when I observe him from afar just hanging out doing his own thing. More often than not, he is in the company of other women. I have witnessed them putting their lips on his mouth. That enrages me. I must summon up all my resolve so that I do not sprint over there and angrily wrench him away from the arms of his current hussy. With heart racing, quivering knees and my lips yearning for a taste of his sweet mouth, I turn and leave. I have avoided the temptation yet once again. It has been over a year since our last fateful night and my paramount desire for him is slowly ebbing away. I am no longer the captain of his ship and I must leave him to steer his own course no matter where it transports him or how distant the land. As the saying goes, “all good things must come to an end.” We sure had one heck of a run!<o:p></o:p></span></div></h1><h2 style="margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">&nbsp;</span></h2><h2 style="margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">ONE FINAL ADIEU FROM ME TO YOU</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /><!--[endif]--></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></h2><h1 style="margin-top: 0in; text-align: justify;"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Goodbye my love<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Farewell my love<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">The time has come to part ways forevermore&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Hence I must bid you my final adieu!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">I will miss you every day,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">My thoughts will often be of you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Time heals all wounds, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">At least that is what I hope to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">This parting of ways had to be,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">All my friends and family agree!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Time to move on<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">Time to let go<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">A few last shared thoughts before I go, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 115%;">I hope will ease the pain if I let you know.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">I will remember the time spent with you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">I will remember the memories old and new.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">But most of all,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">I will always remember you!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Goodbye my love,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Farewell my love,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">This is my final adieu. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">It was never meant to be<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">We both know destiny stepped in and parted you and me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">xoxoxoxoxo<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Please join me as I raise my glass in a toast to pay homage one last time to my lost love…</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16pt;">Diet Pepsi. <span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Valerie S.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">2015<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Enjoy,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">Emily</span></div></h1></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-22681442538482322722015-06-05T23:16:00.000-07:002015-06-05T23:16:05.646-07:00CRAZY GLUE AND ME<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;;"><b>The things man invents!&nbsp; Does everything have both a good side as well as an evil side? No doubt you can find many situations where some invention has its pluses and minuses. Such love-hate relationships!</b><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">CRAZY GLUE AND ME<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s a crazy relationship, that little tube and me. Whenever we meet I always get the short end of the stick, in other words, I loose big time! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It was early in the 1970’s the first time I saw the commercial of the guy in a hard hat hanging from a steel girder; I knew that was for me.&nbsp; There were so many things to repair, but my savior definitely had other ideas as we entered into the love-hate relationship that we still enjoy today. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Remembering the thrill of the hunt as I headed into the hardware store on my quest for the magical fixer, my stomach takes a turn as visions of embarrassing and painful moments flash before me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It was a lovely sunny morning in Salt Lake City and my partner and I had just won a doubles tennis match which left me feeling able to conquer anything.&nbsp; Rushing home to shower and change in time to teach my Weight Watcher class at 11:00 always gave me a lift, but today was special. Tennis partner Caroline and I finally found our rhythm, and we trounced our nemesis for the first time. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I showered and dried my hair, grabbed a quick snack and went to get dressed. Reaching for the closet door I accidentally hit the door with my forefinger and broke my fingernail halfway down the nail bed. It really hurt, and I knew that a Band-Aid was not going to do the trick. I needed a quick fix and thought – CRAZY GLUE! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I ran to the garage to get my tube of glue and went into the bathroom to find my bottle of acetone polish remover. I took off my robe as I didn’t want to get any acetone on it. I sat on the edge of the bathtub, dressed in panties and bra, hesitating before starting to remove the polish, figuring this was going to hurt, but it had to be done. I screamed as the acetone hit my bleeding nail. I heard a scratching on the bathroom door. Sure enough there was Mitzi our little Pomeranian-terrier mix who came to see why I was making all that noise. Leaving the door open so she could watch would eliminate her scratching the door as she always did. So she sat in the doorway and watched me finishing with the acetone. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">When finished I returned it to the cupboard under the sink. Sitting back down on the bathtub and crossing my legs to raise my hand by laying it on my knee, Mitzi barked at me. Could this dog be trying to tell me something?&nbsp; I opened the tube and as directed broke the seal, where upon it spewed glue into the air which promptly landed on my hand gluing it firmly to my knee. Reaching for a towel while still holding the tube of glue, it spewed again going between knees. Trying to wipe it up before anything stuck was not a smooth move. There I sat on the edge of the bathtub with a hand towel stuck to my knees, my knees stuck together, with a hand stuck on the top of my knee and a broken nail throbbing after contact with acetone and glue. I reached under the sink for the bottle of acetone and screamed with pain as my legs could not decide which one was going to relinquish its skin. Mitzi started barking and dancing up and down, and I was trying to figure out how in the heck I was going to get unstuck and make it to my class in a half an hour. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Rolling off the bathtub would put me close enough to the door of the cupboard so off I went and just remembering the pain makes me want to cry. Screaming and crying brought the dancing dog to lick my face, then she licked my hand and the taste of the glue made her stop and the look on her face said, “Lady you’re on your own”, as she backed up to the door and promptly sat down on the threshold, where she would look at me shake her head then let out a bark. I really think she was laughing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I made it to the cupboard door and low and behold I was lying on my left side where I landed on my arm, which was the only mobile one, and commenced trying to get my arm from under my body which meant a lot of screaming and barking.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Finally my arm was free but there was barely enough room to open the door and hopefully enough room to pull the bottle of acetone through. Yeah, just barely made it, but now what? In order to save the carpeting meant getting into the bathtub. I didn’t know if there was enough acetone in the bottle to do the job and didn’t want to waste any. I practiced some self-hypnosis, a technique that I had learned when pregnant. Soon I was in the bathtub with a lot of screaming and barking.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It was a long process of dripping acetone between my knees until I finally pulled them apart with out loss of skin, it just hurt like hell. Next came my hand. Noticing that my nail was glued and that it looked stable gave me some comfort. All told it took 45 minutes to become unstuck. I called the Weight Watcher Center and told them I had a little accident and would be delayed for another 15 minutes. I was told that was okay because there was a full house and they were still weighing and checking in. After finally arriving in one piece, the first thing the clerk said to me as I reached for the check-in cards, “Lee what happened to the polish on your nail?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Strange,” I said, “It came off in the bathtub.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Over the years, due to Super Glue, I have had so many things stuck to other things that had no business sticking to those things. There are spots on cabinets and dressers where paint and finishes are gone because I had to chisel something off their surface.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">While visiting my with my son in England, once again I was confronted with my old enemy.&nbsp; Reaching for something in a cupboard, I broke a fingernail down to the quick, again! A search turned up a tube of the English version of Crazy Glue, but this time I would be smart and hold my hand over the sink. This tube had been opened, and now we had glue hardened at the opening and nothing wanted to come out. I found a pin and poked the opening.&nbsp; I squeezed, nothing, squeezed again this time really hard. Once again the spewing glue found its way between my fingers and the one finger trying to hold my fingernail in place.&nbsp; Trying to lift my middle finger from my forefinger was useless. At least I had a thumb and little finger to try and grab something. But there was nothing to grab, since my son doesn’t wear polish; he had no need for acetone. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Learning the hard way that polish remover without acetone does not remove crazy glue, I set out for the neighbor next door in hopes that she would have some acetone. Hope was dashed when she looked at my hand and burst out laughing. She shook her head and explained that she just goes to the nail salon in the village and they take care of all the messy stuff. She would have offered to drive me to the village but her car was in the shop. I was getting frantic as it was nearing time to leave for my appointment with the counselor. Maybe the counselor could tell me why I continued to have long fingernails, which on occasion brought me nothing but pain and embarrassment. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">While waiting for my son Chris to arrive I tried every thing imaginable. Running hot water over my skin until I couldn’t stand it any more did nothing but give me red skin that hurts. Chris soon arrived and in his military problem-solving manor, assessed the situation and told me he would be right back. He took off and in 15 minutes was back with a bottle of acetone from the salon in the village. It took about ten minutes to get me unstuck, and off we went to the counselor. Of course we were late, but he delivered me to the door, stating to the counselor “Sorry I was late, it took me longer than I thought to unglue her, and she can explain.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Of course she laughed!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The next day I was at the salon in the village having my nail repaired and all my nails filed shorter than they had been in years, and yes she laughed!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It was just two weeks ago that after noticing that there was a crack in a cup handle I thought that this time I would be smart and not have my fingers any where near the glue except to hold the tube.&nbsp; I turned the cup upside down on my wooden worktable and squeezed the little tube. Not only did it come out of the tip but it came out of the side and right between my fingers. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I ran to get my acetone and fifteen minutes later freed the tube from my fingers. While checking the cup handle, it was apparent that the glue had hit the crack, and it looked good. About an hour later as I walked by the table, I grabbed the cup, and it felt like my arm came out of its socket. The cup was firmly attached to the table. Looking closer I could see that a line of glue ran down from the handle and worked its way around the rim. Using a very thin knife and working my way around the rim, I freed the cup without using acetone. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It is my firm belief that Crazy Glue is inherently evil. It was invented by some demented person to insure that innocent people like me will suffer the pain and humiliation of thinking they can actually fix something with Crazy Glue. Except for my fingers it has never adhered to something I wanted to repair as advertised. How they got that guy in the steel hat to hang from that girder was a trick! The warning label should read, sticks only to human skin.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It is my fervent hope that if someone is reading this in a hundred years, they can benefit from my disasters or maybe crazy glue now comes in a spew-proof tube, or some genius invented anti-glue.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br /></div><div align="right" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Lee V.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">April 25, 2015<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Thank you Lee!!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Enjoy,<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Emily<o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-35455430005938273202015-06-05T22:12:00.003-07:002015-06-06T00:03:04.445-07:00Embarrassing Moments<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Many of us have had an occasion or two to embarrass ourselves. There's the "open-mouth-insert-foot" comment that totally mortifies you, and sometimes the "curiosity-killed-the-cat" situation which leaves you smelling more like a dead cat. &nbsp;AND, of course, we cannot just embarrass ourselves in private...we need an audience!<o:p></o:p></b></div><br /><br /><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh No!!!<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />We all like to retain our composure but sometimes life has a way of bringing us back to earth; sometimes with an embarrassing jolt. There are a few things that have happened to me that can still bring a blush to my face when I think of them. These are a few of them although I’m sure there are many more. <br /><br />Early in my marriage I embarrassed myself in front of my new Mother-in-law. I liked Mrs. Kelley and wanted her to get to know my mom better, so we were all having lunch together on the patio. It’s funny how I can still remember where I was sitting and what was on my plate when I recall the incident. We were getting along just fine when I asked my mother for some advice on how to make gravy. I grew up on nice smooth broth-based gravy. I didn’t know how to cook too well at this time. "Mom, how do you make gravy?" I asked. "Jerry makes the worst lumpy, thick, white gravy I ever tasted." Then I went on to describe his method. He added flour to the frying pan after we had fried chicken, stirred it around until it was a gooey mess then put in milk and pepper. Ugh, it was horrible. "Tell me how to make good gravy." <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Mrs Kelley spoke up and said very emphatically "That’s how I make gravy, and it’s good" I was embarrassed, but she was mad. After a beat or two of silence my mother interjected that there were two methods to gravy making, and that I should try both. I was so embarrassed and "Mom Kelley" was ready to go home right then. Nothing I said could smooth it over, and she thought I was making fun of her ways. I still turn red when I think of it.<br /><br /><br />The next incident happened years later. I was on a camping trip with my husband and another couple. We had known each other for years and although she was a little cautious and I was impulsive, we had a great time together. We were going to Eastern Oregon for fishing and camping, and had stopped in a small town to eat lunch. My friend and I were in the restroom washing up. While drying my hands I noticed a perfume machine on the wall. "Oh gosh," I exclaimed. "They have a perfume dispenser just like the one we had when I was in high school." <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">"Don’t mess around." she uttered from her booth. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">"Oh but this is one of those that dispense tiny glass vials of perfume, I haven’t seen one for years." I was taken back to my teen years. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">"Don’t touch it," she ordered. She was still in the booth. Huh, she has a lot of nerve ordering me around. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">"Oh look it even has Chanel Number 5." I was very taken with it although I didn’t wear perfume at all. I was definitely going to explore. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">"Just leave thing alone" she told me. Well I don’t like people telling me what to do and besides what was the harm. I wanted that tiny pencil shaped sample of perfume for old-times sake. I didn’t have a quarter and she wasn’t giving me one. What was taking her so long anyway? After digging through my purse I did find one and inserted it quickly like a naughty kid before she could stop me. Nothing came out, and I was trying to see how it worked, trying to figure out where it came out, I stooped down to see where the perfume was when it sprayed me right in the face and mouth. Yipes! I rushed to the sink to try and wash out my mouth, and get the yucky smelling junk off my face. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">In the meantime of course Dee showed no sympathy. "Why couldn’t you just leave it alone." The more I rubbed water on my face the worse it reeked. Don’t say anything I warned her as we made our way back to the table. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">"Boy you guys sure took a long time" our husbands said. We ordered and began to eat when they started asking what that horrible smell was. It was on my blouse and I guess some in my hair. Well we told our story and got a good laugh, but we rode with the windows down the rest of the way, and the smell stayed with me for a long time, saturating the tent and me for most of the trip. <br /><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">Dede K.</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">Apr 2015</div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><o:p></o:p></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Thank you Dede.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Enjoy,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Emily</div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-51856983793300094302015-06-05T21:51:00.000-07:002015-06-05T21:51:38.009-07:00Finders Keepers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal"><b>All of us lose or misplace items and much more as we age. We have experienced the panic and frustration as we tear throughout house trying to locating the missing item.&nbsp; This story will ring true for many of us, but hopefully, not to this degree.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Originally, this memory was written in two parts but is presented here in full.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Finders Keepers...<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">You know the rest…Losers weepers. I’m weeping. Not really weeping, but I am a sore loser. Let me tell you my sad tale. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">This summer Jerry and I celebrated our 50<sup>th </sup>Anniversary. We went on a cruise to Alaska with relatives and friends. It was an exciting trip, and one I’ll never forget. I will tell you about the cruise at another time. It’s what happened after the cruise that has made me a loser. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The day before the trip Jerry and I decided we had too much cash on hand to carry around on the ship. We had an extra $700 dollars, so I said, "I’ll take it down the basement and hide it.’’ <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">This was fine with hubby so off I went. I was very busy getting ready to leave the next day, packing, watering plants, making phone calls, and going through the bills. I realize now that there were too many things on my mind. Everything went smoothly the next day, and off we went. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We arrived home seven glorious days later. We went to a cook out the next day then I came down with a summer cold and was sick for two or three days. It was a week later when I finally remembered the cash. Imagine my surprise when I went to the basement only to discover that I couldn’t find it. I looked in the places I thought it should be, but no luck. Therefore, I looked some more, no money. For the next several hours, I searched in earnest. My basement is my former workroom and office. I keep all my card making and art supplies there too. I looked in and under everything that is movable. In tiny boxes of screws and nails, in my ribbons, under the radio, in cans of buttons, in all my books, through my sewing supplies, in and under my sewing machines, through my files, and in photo boxes. I tore my desk apart many times; I looked behind the pictures on the wall and my calendar. I went upstairs and came back down thinking the hiding place would occur to me. My recollection of hiding the money was nil. Nothing. <br /><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The third afternoon, I finally asked Jerry what we did with the $700 dollars we had because I wanted to deposit in the bank. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"You hid it don’t you remember?" <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"No I don’t remember." <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I had to confess that I couldn’t find it. I have spent the last week trying to find that darn money. Day after day I looked. I tried putting it out of my mind. I tried sleeping on it, but no luck. I took all the envelopes out of the wastebasket and held them to the light. I went outside and went through the recycling, still no money. I don’t like to think of myself as a loser but what can I say? I’ve looked and looked and looked. I told my husband that maybe I will have to get hypnotized. He thinks I’m joking, but I am not. <br /><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">At this point I have looked upstairs, downstairs, in the laundry room, and through both storerooms. I have looked in all our pockets in the closet and through all my purses.<br /><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I have not told my kids yet. I‘m afraid they will think I’m losing my memory, but I’m sure that’s not the case. I still remember my appointments and what people said to me yesterday and last week. Where is that money? I am leaving a folded one-dollar bill on my desk as a magnet. <br /><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To be continued…<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Where’s the money?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />It’s the third week in August and I am still looking for my hidden $700 dollars. By now, I have gradually told the kids. They have come up with some very devious places to hide things, but none of them has panned out. I haven’t let any of them actually look for it, but I have taken their suggestions. By now, I just look every two or three days, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I am not going to find that darn money, but it‘s like something you just can‘t let go. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">One day, after another fruitless search, it occurred to me that maybe Jerry had found the money early on and was playing a trick on me. After all, he has been saying for years that he would pay me back sometime for the "laxative in the brownies" incident. He had been much calmer about the lost money than he usually was about things. He just kept saying, "It will turn up sooner or later. This wasn’t like him. So one day when my youngest daughter, Jenny was there, I confronted him with this idea. I knew he would fess up and have a good laugh with a witness. <u>No, he didn’t have it.</u>Well, that was the end of that theory. I was kind of disappointed to tell the truth. OK, the money is gone. Forget about it. That is it, I decided. <br /><br />In the very beginning of September my son, Tom came for a visit with his girlfriend Joanna, and her daughter, Candice. We spent the weekend shopping for clothes and things for her college dorm. Tom spent the nights searching for the money. The last night they were there Joanna and her daughter asked if they could search. "Go right ahead", I replied I’ll just stay here and have a cup of coffee. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">They had only been searching a short while before I decided to join them in the basement, curiosity you know.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;"Did you hide the money because you thought someone was going to break in while you were gone or did you just tuck it away until you got home?" Joanna asked me. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"I just tucked it away." <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"Oh that’s a completely different story they said."&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">They began to search superficially. It wasn’t five minutes before Candice reached in a basket and said, "could this be it?’ She held up a bank envelope. Oh my gosh! I opened it and there was my money. After the hooting and hollering, we told the guys. We jumped around and celebrated for a while. It was unbelievable. That darn money was in a basket that I had looked in more than once. It was pushed up under the rim. Jerry gave her a fifty-dollar reward. <br /><br />People have asked me if I remembered putting it there, but I can honestly say I don’t remember hiding it at all.<br /><br />My kids were a little disappointed that they didn’t get a chance at the reward. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">Dede K.<o:p></o:p></div><div style="text-align: right;"> <span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">2015</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Thank you for sharing Dede!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Enjoy,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Emily</span></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-66800332733757784562015-05-17T12:34:00.000-07:002015-05-17T12:34:00.217-07:00The Great Depression and World War II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Jeanne has once again graced us with her memories. &nbsp;Thank you for sharing!<br /><br /><br /><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>The Great Depression and World War II</b><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">For the past week I’ve been watching “The Roosevelts” on TV, Ken Burns’ latest serial about American life.&nbsp; I was born in December of 1934, and FDR was the president throughout my childhood.&nbsp; The events portrayed were happening as I grew up.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Until I was seven we lived in Northeast Portland.&nbsp; The Great Depression was apparent everywhere around us.&nbsp; Fortunately, my dad always had a good job; we lived in a nice house and had plenty to eat.&nbsp; That wasn’t true for some of our extended family.&nbsp; I remember my mom making food boxes for my dad to deliver to aunts and cousins who had no work.&nbsp; There were abandoned houses in our neighborhood because families had to move out due to the lack of employment.&nbsp; Almost every day single men would knock on our door and ask my mother if they could work for food.&nbsp; Sometimes she had no work for them but fed them anyway.&nbsp; They would sit on our front steps, balancing a plate on their knees and silently eat whatever she served them. I was four or five years old and very curious about these people, but I don’t remember them acknowledging me in any way.&nbsp; It seemed to me they were slightly embarrassed by their circumstances.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; One time when I was riding in the car with my dad we stopped at a light and there on the corner was an older woman, sitting on a couch with all her belongings piled around her.&nbsp; I had never seen such a thing.&nbsp; When I inquired about it my dad said she had been evicted by the sheriff because she didn’t pay her rent.&nbsp; I asked my dad where she would go.&nbsp; He didn’t seem too concerned or interested, but I was very upset by it.&nbsp; When I was older, I realized he must have seen similar circumstances all the time as he drove around Portland.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In April of ’42 my parents bought a house in the country.&nbsp; We sat on a hill overlooking Tigard, Bull Mountain and the Coast Range mountains.&nbsp; At that time we were really out in the country; all the growth in that area occurred after the war.&nbsp; I think my parents moved there because people believed there was a real threat of the Japanese invading the west coast or at least bombing the cities.&nbsp; No one knew what might happen, and people and the government became very irrational as witnessed by the interment of the innocent Japanese-American citizens.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In school we learned what to do in a bombing raid (get under the desk; stay away from windows) and were paired with another student who lived very close to school so we could go to their house with them if there was time.&nbsp; I decided right away that I would run the mile to my house rather than be with strangers.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Every residential area was assigned a Fire Marshall for their district.&nbsp; This was a neighbor who came around periodically to make sure you had a bucket of sand, a shovel and a fire extinguisher in case of an incendiary bomb attack.&nbsp; No outside lights were allowed at night and windows were covered with blackout shades so no light was visible from the outside.&nbsp; Car travel at night was restricted, and cars that must be out had special headlight shades installed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; All kinds of good were rationed and some weren’t available at all.&nbsp; Meat, sugar, butter, and coffee all required ration stamps to purchase as did shoes, tires and gasoline.&nbsp; Many people had Victory Gardens.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; We observed more signs of war as time went on: convoys of hundreds of Army trucks and jeeps going form Camp Adair near Corvallis to Fort Lewis, squadrons of bombers coming and going from who knows where.&nbsp; Everything was “Top Secret”. “Loose Lips Sink Ships” was the motto of the day.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">One day my four-year-old brother was playing outside by himself.&nbsp; He came tearing into the house, his eyes huge.&nbsp; He pulled on my mother’s clothes, “Mama, mama, look! There’s ……..somethin’!? The “somethin’” was a huge blimp form the Tillamook Naval Air Station handing right over the house so low my mother said you could clearly see the people inside.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It was an interesting and scary time.&nbsp; Then we entered another scary time when school kids once again had to practice for attacks. It was called “The Cold War.”<o:p></o:p></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">Jeanne R.<o:p></o:p></div><br /><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">1 Oct 2014<o:p></o:p></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-86073908468767979422015-05-17T12:02:00.000-07:002015-05-17T12:02:09.825-07:00Sewing Struggles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Once again, we have a guest writer from my writing class in town. &nbsp;This class is not designed to make published writers, but to share childhood memories and family stories with their descendants. &nbsp;Thank you Jeanne for your contribution! &nbsp;I'm sure there are many others who feel the same way about sewing.</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Sewing Struggles<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I can’t sew.&nbsp; Oh, I can mend a tear and sew on a button or shorten a skirt by hand.&nbsp; As a kid, I learned to darn socks and embroider dish towels.&nbsp; But I can’t sew on a sewing machine, and I’ve always admired those who can.&nbsp; They seem to me miraculously blessed with great talent.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">When I was in grade school there was a class called “Home Ec” for girls only. (Boys took what was known as shop.)&nbsp; One semester of Home Ec was devoted to sewing and one to kitchen skills.&nbsp; During kitchen skills we made biscuits, learned how to set a table and what R.S.V.P. meant and what to do about it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">During the sewing term we learned how to hem flour sack dish towels and operate a sewing machine.&nbsp; In the Home Ec room at Multnomah School there were rows of treadle sewing machines, leftovers from the 1930s.&nbsp; Because of the war, new machines were not made during the 40’s. A treadle machine is powered by feet rather than electrically and the faster you “treadle” the faster the needle goes up and down.&nbsp; It’s like rubbing your stomach and patting your head at the same time.&nbsp; I never could coordinate these movements.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">My mother had an electric machine which she rarely used.&nbsp; When I was in high school I tried sewing on it and even cut out a dress from a pattern, but the thread kept tangling and the machine kept stalling.&nbsp; I kept going into frustrated crying jags so my dad urged me to quit.&nbsp; He tactfully told me what a good cook and baker I was and that I should further develop my kitchen skills.&nbsp; I’m sure he was trying to protect the household from my emotional outbursts.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Lately, I have had thoughts of buying a machine and learning to sew.&nbsp; I’d love to learn.&nbsp; But, on the other hand, would it make sense financially to invest in a machine at my age?&nbsp; Could I possibly get my money’s work out of it?&nbsp; AND, I don’t like to go on emotional tears anymore so I’ll probably stick with kitchen skills.&nbsp; If you have thoughts for me on this, R.S.V.P.&nbsp; I know what it means!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right; text-indent: 0.5in;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Jeanne R.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right; text-indent: 0.5in;">12 Nov 2014</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-81871406537352335282014-11-13T15:36:00.000-08:002014-11-13T15:36:46.572-08:00Thank You, Mr. Bell<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Once again, we have a wonderful story by a guest writer form my local class in Portland. &nbsp;You may recognize her from some previous blog posts. Lee adds wonderful humor in her writing and definitely has had some great experiences! &nbsp;I hope you enjoy this piece.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Thank You, Mr. Bell<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Jerry Seinfeld was ranting about some of the things in everyday life that perplexed him. It’s funny how he makes you think of things that annoy but can make you laugh. It reminded me of some of my life’s funniest moments that have happened on the telephone. Some sad and tragic news has also come along those wires; however, where would we be without it?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Remember the days of going to the neighbors to use the telephone because it was the only one in the neighborhood? And now I have three in my four room apartment, and, of course, I can never find one when it is ringing. I often wonder if Mr. Bell knows what he started those many years ago. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It took my mother a while to believe that the phone didn’t ring only in times of disaster. The telephone brought a call to inform my mother of the death of her younger&nbsp;brother. It was a freak accident while he was driving from Pennsylvania to California. Then there was the call from the coast guard to inform us my father and uncle had been rescued at sea. We knew they were late coming home from their fishing trip, but we didn't know they were adrift at sea. However, the telephone could be a very handy thing for my mother. She could call my friends on the phone and tell me it was time to come home. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; As I reached my teenage years I discovered the art of talking endlessly and not saying anything to my friends who did the same. The sole purpose being to irritate my parents, and this I learned when I had teenagers.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In my later years I found the phone a nuisance but necessary in my business as an interior designer.&nbsp; I spent most of my days on the phone with clients and vendors. One day a salesperson appeared at my office begging five minutes of my time. “I have the perfect solution for people on the go, you will love this.” was his opening line. He opened his brief case and pulled out a telephone that was at least a foot long and big enough that my hand could barely fit around. It weighed at least two pounds. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“This is a car phone. It will allow you to keep in touch with your office whenever you are on the road. You can conduct business from your car. It’s fantastic!” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “You’re joking,” I replied. “The only time during the day that I have any peace and quiet and time to think creatively is when I am in my car. Thanks but no thanks!” The look on his face was non-believing. “<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“How could I not want the latest thing? Any body who is anybody will have one!”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I guess I am nobody,” was my reply.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Two day’s later I entered a client’s home with a key. She was at work in the Portland Mayor’s office and had called to say she would not turn on the alarm if I wanted to go in and measure the windows. Of course she forgot and turned on her alarm. It was so loud that it was rattling the windows and hurt my ears. I ran to the neighbors on both sides of the house and across the street, but no one was home. I waited in my car for the police to come, and about twenty of the longest minutes of my life later, a patrol car pulled up. “Should I arrest you for breaking and entering or noise pollution?” he asked with a grin.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">He went in the house, turned off the alarm and explained that he got the code from the alarm company. He told me to finish my business and lock the door on the way out. He also told me that he knew my client well and had responded several times to her alarm. He called her at work, and her office informed him that she was chairing a committee meeting on the escalation of home burglaries in the Portland area. We had a good laugh and then he said, “Too bad you don’t have one of those new car phones, you could have called the police”.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; One night after a dinner out with friends, I came home about 10:00 and since it was too early for bed, I settled on the couch to catch some television. The phone rang and when I answered a quavering voice said, “I would like to make a pledge.”&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I told her she had the wrong number and we both hung up. I turned to OPB, and sure enough it was pledge week. My phone number was 245-2345. The pledge number was 245-2346, and I usually got a call or two during pledge week. About 10 minutes later the phone rang again. It was the same quivering voice wanting to make a pledge. Again I told her she had the wrong number and this time she apologized profusely, but before hanging up I explained that she wanted a six instead of a five.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A few minutes later the phone rang again. This time I had pen and paper ready, and I took her pledge information. Then she told me the story of how she had been calling the wrong number and a very nice lady answered and gave her the right number. After we hung up I called in her pledge and mine, and I have been an OPB member ever since.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It was summer and the weather had been great. I told my crew that I wouldn’t be in the office before 10:00 the next morning because I had client appointment that night and I fully intended to sleep in. My phone rang at 7:30. I answered, “Do you know what time it is?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A male voice responded, “Yes gorgeous, I know what time it is, and I know how you look just waking up, and I was wondering why I wasn’t there? But I’m calling to see if you would like to go on a picnic today. The day is beautiful, and I don’t have to be in the office today, so what do you say?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; By this time I was awake and wondering who on earth this was. I would hate to think I have slept with someone and not recognized his voice…that was just not my style. When I asked who is inviting me to a picnic? He responded, “Come on Sally, don’t kid. You know who this is.&nbsp; We had dinner last week and a great night and morning in bed.” Evidently Sally had more style than I did, and now I was intrigued. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Where did we have dinner?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Zeffiro. Come on, you remember.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Wow, I thought, that was the newest restaurant in town and very expensive so Sally did have more style. “Listen to me, we did not have dinner and my name isn’t Sally. You obviously have a wrong number at 7:30 in the morning, and I am not happy.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Are you sure this is not Sally? Is your number 245-2345?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">When I replied, “It seems Sally gave you a wrong number.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I expected some protests that she wouldn’t do such a thing but without missing a beat he said, “Well, she wasn’t that good in bed anyway. You sound really sexy, would you like to go on a picnic?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Well, I would. You sound sexy, too, and I think we could have great fun. I will be honest with you, I have a weight problem, but I am down to 350.” The phone went dead.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Now that I was wide-awake I got ready for work and went to my office. When they asked why I came in so early I told them about my phone call. They all laughed and Helen said, “Lee go write that down and put it in your book.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I used to say when something crazy happened, “One day I am going to write a book!”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I had been retired for one week and was already bored. My son’s friend was working with a company that did political polling and had just been promoted. One day she called and pleaded for me to help out as they had a rush poll to do and had several people out sick…and two had quit.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I went to the office took a short test, and they hired me. What an experience that was! <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I was amazed at the messages people left on their answering machines and the old people who loved answering polls just to have someone to talk to. It was also a confirmation of my opinion that a large percentage of the American people should not be allowed to vote due to stupidity. The call that made me quit was truly funny. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">A young man of twenty-eight from Hood River didn’t know the president’s name let alone his congressman or senators. He answered every question with a question. I was thinking, “how does he live, he’s as dumb as a fence post”. At the end of the poll we were supposed to ask, “Do you have any questions?”&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">When he answered yeah, I thought maybe he’d taken an interest in his government. Then he asked, “Do you date?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Flabbergasted, I answered, “Yes, yes I do but I live in San Francisco.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Oh damn” was his response and hung up. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The auditor who listened in on phone calls came over to my desk laughing and said, “I could not believe how dumb that guy was but you were great keeping your cool. You deserve a raise”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I said, “Thank you very much but this will be my last week. My frustration factor is full.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Yes, Mr. Bell you gave the world a great invention, but gone are the days of the polite phone operator; she has been replaced by the frustrating voice mail. Gone is the rotary dial and the ability to connect with people.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Instead we have phones that can answer any question that you ask, take pictures of things that should not be photographed. And now you don’t even have to talk on a phone; you can type out your message in shorthand. But mostly today’s phones keep humans from connecting to humans. I thought it was just desserts when the Japanese government said that the number one accident for teenagers was walking into objects while texting. If I never hear the words selfie and apps again, it will be too soon.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I am hoping that soon texting will be limited to a certain area like smoking. I have banned phones at my dinner table, and if someone has to answer their cell phone they can go into another room. Phones should not be allowed in public places as there are things I have overheard that could get people arrested and things that make me think less of my fellow man. But the lingering question I have Mr. Bell is why does my phone mostly ring when I am in the bathroom?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Lee V.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; 12 Nov 2014</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-28675491794872903862013-12-24T09:52:00.002-08:002013-12-24T09:53:20.697-08:00An Italian Christmas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="center" style="text-align: center;">BUON NATALE<o:p></o:p><br /><br /></div>&nbsp;&nbsp; About the time that I realized that it was impossible for the big fat man in the red suit to slide down a chimney, I knew what Christmas was all about. It was the Christmas Eve gatherings in the Italian tradition: Aunts, uncles, cousins, special food, things that we looked forward to all year long. The days of preparation, and when old enough, I got to help. Grandpa Biase had a small room that he used as a pantry, with all his pots and pans and shelves from ceiling to floor and by Christmas Eve it was filled with Italian Cheesecake, an assortment of cookies that would make the local bakery look wanting.<o:p></o:p><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp; For Catholics, it was a fast day, no meat just fish, several kinds and pasta of course. The dough balls were my favorite. Little balls of light, fluffy dough with an anchovy in the middle was for before dinner and the ones with white raisins and warm honey mixed with whiskey drizzled over the top, were served after dinner with the other desserts. We had pizzelles, biscotti, little turnovers filled with dates and raisins and various Italian candies. My brother and I loved the nougat and almond that came in little boxes with beautiful pictures on them. We would collect and save them to build things. <o:p></o:p><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp; After dinner, while the woman cleaned up, the men would usually start a card game and they would play until it was time for church. It was a struggle to stay awake but I loved midnight mass, as there was music and everyone was in a good mood and it was all very festive.<o:p></o:p><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp; We usually took turns, one year with the Seraphines, the next with the Palianis. I loved them both, but my mother's family, the Palianis were known for their volatility. So it was always interesting. The penny ante card games were a lot louder than the Seraphines. Grandpa Paliani played Santa Claus and with his mustache and round belly he was very believable but the Italian cheroot that he always had in the right side of his mouth gave him away.<o:p></o:p><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp; The first Christmas in our new home in Baden was memorable because my brother and I looked in the cubbyhole upstairs, which was forbidden and saw all the Christmas presents. Everything I had asked for and them some. We must have been good! Christmas morning brought me a coloring book and a 10-cent box of crayons. My brother got something like an airplane model. What a shock, we acted appropriately grateful and it wasn't until about two in the afternoon and I couldn't stand it anymore and blurted out, “What happened to all the presents in the cubbyhole?” To which my mother calmly replied, “Those went to children who didn't look in the cubbyhole before Christmas. . After my parents had a good laugh, they brought out the presents and we never looked in the cubbyhole again at Christmas time.<o:p></o:p><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp; After the war, when the Palianis headed to California, Christmas looked a lot different. Our first Christmas in California was such a shock. It was at least 75 degrees and we had dinner on our patio surrounded by flowers and a banana tree. Lots of family did not make up for the lack of snow! My brother and I moaned and groaned and when friends came after dinner one of them had a Lincoln convertible and took us for a ride and we went to the beach. Sand does not make up for snow.<o:p></o:p><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp; The families grew and the children became adults and we still went to Aunt Lena's and Uncle Carlo's for Christmas Eve. Grandpa Paliani was bouncing great grandchildren on his knee while playing Santa. He was 95 when he died. He was caught in a rainstorm while on his daily 10-mile walk and came down with a bad cold that turned into pneumonia. That brought an end to that era of Christmas Eve parties. <o:p></o:p><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp; Being married, it would soon be my turn to host Christmas Eve. We had been in our new home a few years and it was our turn to host Christmas Eve. My two nephews and our two boys were the same ages, five and four. My aunt and her family and three children were there also. My parents and younger sisters completed our gathering. We had our traditional dinner and were just finishing up when we heard the sound of jingle bells and noise on the roof and the front door flew open and in pranced an elf. He yelled at the children, “Rudolf needs carrots, quickly, carrots!” Where upon Mark who was the oldest passed out cold, he hit the floor in a split second and the three others ran to the refrigerator to find carrots. They ran to the elf and gave him the bag of carrots while Mark laid on the floor with his hand to his head moaning, “I don't believe it, I don't believe it. Santa is on the roof.” While the elf was feeding the reindeer, Santa came marching through the door and thanked the children for the carrots. We had no idea who this Santa was, but I did recognize the elf as someone from church. After the all the children got to talk to Santa, my aunt who may have had too much wine sat on his lap and sang Santa Baby ala Eartha Kitt. We never did discover who played Santa, I think Aunt Jean embarrassed him so he never ‘fessed up.<o:p></o:p><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp; Another memorable Christmas Eve was our first Christmas in Salt Lake. There were 12 children so we hired a Santa and he was very good. We left a bag of small presents on the front porch and he brought them in for the children. By the end of the party one of the children was not feeling so good, we figured too much candy and cookies. A Christmas morning phone call let us know that she did not have too much candy, she had the chicken pox. What a present! Two weeks later one of my children came down with chicken pox and one by one every two weeks we had chicken pox. It was the gift that kept on giving.<o:p></o:p><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp; Many Christmases have come and gone, the loss of family members makes it a bitter sweet time. My sister and her family and I and mine still celebrate together with the old fashioned seven fishes and everyone seems to love it. We have included a few friends with an Italian background and the young people talk about keeping up the traditions. <o:p></o:p><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp; My responsibility is cookies for dessert and if I can find smelts this year it is my turn to fry.<o:p></o:p><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp; I wish I could do some of the cookies Grandpa Biase made, but Santa would have to bring me the gift of endurance and patience. May your holiday be filled with good food, family and friends.<o:p></o:p><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; -- Lee V., 2013<br /><br />Thank you Lee for a wonderful memory...<br /><br />Happy Holidays to all...<br />Emily</div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-15440724033086721532013-08-16T16:56:00.003-07:002013-08-16T20:23:40.897-07:00THE PSYCHIC by Lee V.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Many people do not believe in the supernatural, "fortune tellers", or past lives, and some do not believe in fate while others accept some or all of these. &nbsp;I've personally known too many people with such experiences, including my own. &nbsp;Even before my experiences, I've always said that life is stranger than fiction, and it appears so!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">THE PSYCHIC</div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">On November 5, 1981 a friend dragged me off to visit Portland’s famed psychic, Michael Thompson. I remember the date because it was my ex-friend Terry’s birthday. The object of this visit was for Michael to tell me how or should I get Terry out of my life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Michael was sitting at a little round table draped with a paisley print cloth (very gypsy looking), and in the middle of this table was an honest-to-goodness, real live crystal ball! I almost laughed.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As I sat down, he closed his eyes, and soon his chin dropped to his chest. After a few minutes I thought, “This joker has fallen asleep! &nbsp;The thought had barely passed through my mind when he said, “I am not sleeping. I am seeing things that concern me.”&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He then picked up a deck of cards and dealt out a row, studied them for a moment; still he had not looked at me. He picked up the cards, shuffled and dealt them again. He turned to look at the wall next to him and said, “You think you are divorced, but you are not. You have two Scorpios in your life, a husband and this boyfriend. Get rid of them both. It will take you several years but you must make a permanent break with both of them. Your husband thinks of you as his possession and will not easily relinquish this relationship. The boyfriend is one of your life teachers. He will always be in your life, but the relationship will change. Before that happens, there will be much happiness as well as tears. You will learn life lessons that you need in order to progress; the most important being self-introspection. From that you will grow to be a better person, but it will be a painful journey. You will help him with a major change in his life. This man will never be happy in this life, as he is not willing to learn his lessons. It is the same for your husband. These two men are not willing to make the changes necessary to achieve what they want in this life. You are willing to do what is necessary, but don’t always know what that is. Your confusion comes from major issues involving your mother.” (Now that, I already knew.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">&nbsp;“You should not travel in a car during the month of December.” That was not good news for someone who made her living traveling in a car and whose busiest month was December.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I do see you traveling south, next year about the fourth month. It has something to do with your parents.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I said, “Yes, they live in Ashland.”&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He replied, “Please don’t tell me anything, I am here to tell you. No, it is not Ashland, it is further south, maybe California. Yes it is southern California and while it will be very difficult for you to make this trip, you must do it. The discomfort must be overlooked and you must go. I can’t tell you why, only that it is important for you to go.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">All this time he is staring at the wall with his eyes closed. Then he picked up the cards, shuffled, dealt and finally looked me in the eyes and said, “Someone with dark hair, very close to you will die.” &nbsp;Again, he read my thoughts, “No it is not your mother. She has much to do before this life is over. I can tell that you do not want to know more. Just remember you must take this trip.” &nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He turned to the wall again. “You have four sons. One will cause you much heartache. There will be an enforced break in your relationship but he will use this time to make major changes in his life and will do very well. You will then become closer. Another son who is musically gifted will go through much anguish over his career and his relationship with his father. He will have moderate success as a musician, but will be very successful in another field.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“You will meet a man who is tall, dark and handsome (Ha, all the fortune tellers say that!). He has something to do with the Army Corps of Engineers, but he is not in the Army. I see the Navy or Marines involved.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That didn't make a whole lot of sense to me, but none of this did. Michael stood without looking at me and said that’s all I can tell you today.” He turned, walked behind a curtain, and that was it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The hair on my arms stood up, and it was the eeriest feeling I ever had. All the way home I concentrated on what he said and how he said it and immediately wrote down everything he told me and impressions of him as he spoke. I was going to remember all this and make sure Madeline knew that he didn't get anything right. After all, Val swore he had signed the divorce papers, and I was sure that Terry would come to his senses and act sane!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That evening I called son Mark in Salt Lake City, and asked him to find out if his father lied to me when he said he signed the divorce papers. When I think back to that moment, I can still hear Mark laughing. Well, that answered that question. We would just have to wait and see about the other things.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">About a week later my brother Del called my sister and me to remind us that next year would mark our parents’ 50th wedding anniversary and his and Kay’s 25th. Did we think it would be a smart thing to start and planning something now? Also we should do it in Southern California because that is where friends and family were. We decided on April 4th. Oh boy, here was that trip to Southern California in the fourth month of next year. But surely it wouldn't be so difficult for me to get there. I had a new car; Brad and I could drive it or fly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I wasn’t thinking about Michael’s dire prediction for December until Brad and I were sitting at a red light the week before Christmas. I looked up in time to see a car run the red light as a car with the right of way entered the intersection. The car that got hit spun around and stopped. The car that ran the red light picked up speed and headed right for us. It wiped out the driver’s side of my car, bounced around the car behind us and wiped out the next car which was a brand new Cadillac being driven home from the dealer. She spun around that car and went up over the curb into a parking lot where she managed to destroy two parked cars. It wasn't until late in January that I learned that the lady who ran the red light was looking into the sun and thought she had the green. On impact with the first car, she hit her head and was unconscious as her foot got wedged on the gas pedal, which caused the speeding. I learned this when we both went to the same chiropractor, and he realized I was part of what she called, “a minor mishap!” &nbsp;We all thought it was a major disaster. Michael called it again!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The month of January went by and the body shop had still not received the new doors for my car. It seemed to be a problem with the factory in Japan, and no one could tell me when we would get the new body parts. The first of February found me at a charity auction where one of the items up for bid was the use of a 15-passenger van. Now I ask you, wasn't that the answer to my problem? We could get my sister and family, Brad and I, and our entire luggage with room to spare. Oh, we would have great fun all driving together to So Cal. Boy, was I going to outsmart that pessimist Michael. I plunked down my $200.00, which was the winning bid and gloated all day Sunday.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Monday morning found me sitting on my rear in my parking lot, where I stepped into a small hole and broke my foot. The doctor told me I picked the worst bone in a foot to break, and I would have to go to the hospital and have a pin put in it. I informed the doctor that when I broke my elbow years before, the pins worked their way out because the doctor said I was allergic to surgical steel. He assured me that people were not allergic to surgical steel.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Four cast changes because of swelling, and six weeks later, still no healing. They then determined I was allergic to the pin and they would remove it, and for sure I would have no walking cast. I was in a wheel chair for a month and panicked because it was getting close to the time to leave for California.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I told the doctor what I had planned, he said absolutely not. Driving all that way was out of the question as the vibration would not be good. After I cried and threatened to jump off a bridge and leave a note to his wife naming him as my lover … he agreed to put a walker on my cast, but I would have to fly and have to have two seats so I could put my leg up. I could only get two seats as far as Fresno but figured that it wasn't so far from Fresno to Orange County, and he didn't have to know.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, my leg knew and that was the most miserable flight and week I have ever spent. Michael was right, it was the most difficult trip I ever made, but I still didn't know why I had to make it. I soon realized that it was just wonderful being with my family because it was the first time in years that Del, M.J., Judy, Mom, Dad and I were all together.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">August of that year was one of the worst times of our lives. Judy died and then I knew why we all had to make that trip to California. She was the dark haired person close to me who would die.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I am not sure that it is a good thing to know about the future unless it is all good or you can do something to change the bad things.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">About a year later, Mark took an extended vacation to Texas courtesy of the federal government. Some might call that a break in our relationship, but he did make a major life change. That was another one for Michael.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That just leaves tall, dark and handsome to be accounted for. An acquaintance that knew Terry said, “You must get him out of your life, and boy, do I have a great guy for you.” He hounded me for about a month before I finally agreed to have dinner with this person. It was the first week of December; we were in the midst of a huge job redoing some models in a Palm Springs project. The other designer was an episodic drunk and chose that time to do his thing. That left me in charge of everything so I was not looking forward to the usual turmoil associated with a blind date.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Saturday night came, the doorbell rang, and when I opened the door ... there he was, six feet two, broad shoulders, narrow hips, black hair with a smattering of silver at the temples, bright blue eyes and a smile that could have sold toothpaste. That was the beginning of a great evening. We went to dinner and conversation was easy and good. He sold commercial insurance but didn't really like it. I asked how long he was doing a job he didn't like. “Only a year,” he replied. “I retired as a major in the Marine Corps, but most of my 30 years I was attached to the Army Corps of Engineers.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The first thing I did when I got home was look in my journal and sure enough, that was exactly what Michael said. But he made no mention of the fact that tall, dark and handsome was going to quit his job in two weeks to live in an art colony in Mexico and paint.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is the story of my psychic, and it is all true. Gathering the pictures of my parent’s 50th anniversary party brought back these memories. When I look at the pictures of the party, I saw so many people who were dear to me and within a year or so they were dead. So yes, Michael was right when he said, “No matter what, you must go to California.”</div>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br /><div style="text-align: right;">- Lee V., 2013&nbsp;</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">*****</div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Lee is a member of the Woodstock Community Center writing class which encourages everyone to write childhood memories and family stories.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Thank you Lee for sharing your wonderful story.<br /><br />Emily</div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7405290077889161658.post-20166052104954985512013-07-25T20:17:00.002-07:002013-07-25T20:17:33.845-07:00PASSPORTS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Once again, a member of the writing class has shared a wonderful story. &nbsp;I can't imagine being this brave and this lucky! &nbsp;Although times were different then, no doubt luck had a huge part in his adventure!</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Passports</span></b></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sometimes when I get caught shaking my head at the perceived foolishness of the young, which is so easy to do at my age, up pops all my past mistakes, my hubris, my misconceptions, risks taken in ignorance. &nbsp;One such a blissfully ignorant undertaking still makes me shake my head in wonder at my stupidity, and I shiver.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My first baby girl was born in August of 1964. &nbsp;The miracle of this event hit me like a bolt of lightning after the plodding months of pregnancy. &nbsp;This beautiful little being was mine, my responsibility, my joy, one reason for being. My first thoughts went to my mother. I had to go home to have her hold my Christina, share my joy with her.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Since home was over 6,000 miles away, this was not so easy to do. &nbsp;I had lived in Oregon for two years. &nbsp;My husband and I were married in my hometown in Germany. &nbsp;It took six months to get my visa so that I could come to the USA with him. My German passport was still valid at that time. It had been granted several years earlier for a high school trip to Great Britain. &nbsp;I was set to travel to America and to exciting adventures in my new home.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A green card was sent to me several months after we arrived in Baker, called Baker City today. I was adjusting well to the American way of life, but the need to go back and connect with my mother was now overwhelming. So when Christina was nine months old and the sweetest easiest baby ever, I had her ticket and mine to Hannover, Germany via New York and Frankfurt. &nbsp;Since Christina was an American citizen and I was not, she had to have her own passport with this adorable little passport picture.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I checked my own passport, I noticed that it had expired a few months earlier. &nbsp;Here comes the incredible act of foolishness I tended to be possessed with in my youth. &nbsp;I assumed that I no longer needed this passport. &nbsp;I did not find it necessary to check with anyone who knew anything about traveling across borders. &nbsp;On my green card it said “in lieu of a passport” and that was good enough for me. &nbsp;Off I flew with the baby in my arms to New York.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I got to New York without any trouble, no security checks. There was a special airplane bassinet and other pampering from a not overworked attendant for Christina and me, after all this was 1965.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">At La Guardia airport I checked in at the International desk of Lufthansa to continue my trip. The agent looked at me with open mouth when I presented my tickets, Christina’s passport and my green card.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“You have to go back,” he said, you cannot leave this country without a passport. &nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Impossible,” I replied, “I paid for this expensive trip, and I have to keep going!”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Visions of an embarrassing return to Baker without having been in Germany, knowing that I would not have a chance to repeat this trip for a long time kept me fighting. &nbsp;I really do not remember how I talked them into letting me board the plane. &nbsp;I told everyone I had a passport in Baker and I would send for it as soon as I got to Germany, leaving out that that passport was expired. &nbsp;The knowledge I have now that it is a lot easier to allow someone to leave a country than to get permission for entrance probably had something to do with it. In any case we were on our way across the ocean. &nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In Frankfurt I climbed down the stairs of the plane with a bit more apprehension and continued to go through customs. &nbsp;There was no discussion, just a look of disbelief and I was led into a small office. &nbsp;Here someone took Christina out of my arms. &nbsp;I started to panic but was told that she would be fine at an in-airport nursery close to us. &nbsp;Then the questioning began: &nbsp;Where was I from, where was I going, why was I going, had I run away, was I stateless, was I a fugitive, a refugee and on and on. &nbsp;I told my story and told it again – my interrogators could hardly believe that someone could be so blissfully ignorant, so dumb, so careless about international travel. They really did not know what to do with me and my baby. &nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Finally, they decided to call my hometown and check with the courthouse there about the information I had given them – birth date, place, address of my mother, etc. &nbsp;It all checked out and all was as I had said. &nbsp;Then it was decided that I could travel home since I was going to send for my passport from there. A parting remark from one of the agents was. &nbsp;“Make sure you have that passport when you return. If you think we were hard on you, it will be much, much harder to get back into the USA!” But I would have my passport renewed in my hometown, and I would be fine.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was wonderful to be back home after three years. &nbsp;I showed off my baby wherever I went, Mutti cooked my favorite dishes, friends and relatives wanted to hear about my new life and told me about their changes. &nbsp;My husband had sent my expired passport. &nbsp;I went to the courthouse with confidence. &nbsp;“No,” they said, “we cannot renew your passport. &nbsp;You are no longer a resident here.”&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was stunned. &nbsp;I knew better than to argue with a German bureaucrat. &nbsp;I slunk home to consider my options. &nbsp;What amazes me today is that I did not seek advice from anyone, nor that anyone asked me about my passport. &nbsp;Everyone must have assumed that I knew what I was doing, and I was too embarrassed to tell them otherwise. &nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I decided (or did I decide?) to do nothing and so the last day of my stay came and my family escorted Christina and me back to the airport in Hannover. &nbsp;Our tickets were checked, suitcases weighed, but no one asked for passports since we were leaving the country. Today that would never happen! I looked with foreboding at my mother and uncle and aunt who were hugging Christina and kissing me ‘Good Bye.’ &nbsp;Would I see them again very soon, or worse, would I not see them for a long time, locked up somewhere with my baby on Ellis Island? &nbsp;I didn’t even consider that my precious baby could be taken from me ... which has happened, as I now know, &nbsp;to other immigrants with faulty papers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We arrived in New York tired of course. &nbsp;Customs loomed. &nbsp;I handed over the passports, Christina’s on top with her immunization records all in order, legal, and my passport below, outdated. &nbsp;The middle aged customs official smiled at us and started paging through the green booklets. &nbsp;I was waiting for the explosion, for the open mouth, the incredulous questions. &nbsp;But none came. &nbsp;He handed the passports back and I moved on. &nbsp;I could have hugged him, but no, I moved coolly on. &nbsp;He had not notice the date of expiration in my passport, and I was back in the USA! &nbsp;We probably looked so innocent, so average, young mother with baby going home. It never occurred to him that there could be something wrong, that someone would dare to travel with incomplete papers. Forty-eight years later I can still see the face of that agent and his absolutely wonderful smile.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The year after I got back I applied for citizenship. It was granted just before my second child was born. &nbsp;Being separated from my children because of my different nationality had been giving me nightmares. There are lots of stories of immigrants being sent back to their country of origin while the children, American citizens, have to remain here in the USA. &nbsp;I have heard of people trying to enter with incomplete paper who were not allowed back in the USA for many years. &nbsp;I shake my head at my incredible foolishness. &nbsp;I was young, I was lucky, but at least I now always carry an up to date passport!</div><div style="text-align: right;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;– Kaethe W.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Kaethe, thank you for sharing!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Emily</div></div>Genealemhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08862053925857198520noreply@blogger.com0